


The Eagle and the Tiger's Rise and Fall

by Space_Kitten_from_Planet_Pheromone



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - War, Betrayal, Consensual Infidelity, Courtesan Eren, Foreshadowing, Levi is an Emperor, Levi's Harem, M/M, One-time-threesome, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-02-09 09:27:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 65,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1977687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Space_Kitten_from_Planet_Pheromone/pseuds/Space_Kitten_from_Planet_Pheromone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An emperor. A merchant turned slave. An empire that hoards all that it sees. All is entwined into a tale of love and betrayal, knowing no bounds, even in the clutches of death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

_Far away and long ago, an emperor reigned supreme_

* * *

“Another horde of slaves have been captured, Your Highness. Among them, six people stand out the most.”

A deep hum. Soft shuffles of cloth. An airy sigh. The sloshing of wine inside a glass.

The emperor of the Eagle country, draped on a gaudy throne, lazily lifts his eyes to the high, maroon ceiling.

His chest rises and falls steadily against the simple, silver, silk robe he wears, each intake of air slow and deep as his lips part slightly. Pale is his skin, an alabaster, moonlight glow. His eyes are a bright shade of the silver moon. His hair is as dark as the night. His limbs are lazily sprawled on the golden armrests, showing an eyeful of those lean, smooth legs and that taut, firm chest that leaves nothing to the imagination.

His toes twiddle along with his long, callous fingers, humming to himself, not saying anything at all.

It takes another minute before the guard who kneels before him quickly raises his head to look at the silent emperor.

“Your Highness,” he speaks, eyes trying hard not to follow that valley of slender and firm flesh. The guard is new to the ways of the palace. He is too new, but he knows all too well that one should not lay their eyes on the emperor in a lascivious manner. “Shall I fetch you the slaves—”

“Are they pretty?” the emperor suddenly asks, catching the guard unawares. Bored, silver eyes slide sideways, to where the guard kneels. The emperor doesn’t turn his head.

The emperor of the Eagle country is known to have a horde of men and women at his beck and call—all of them possessing ethereal beauty as mysterious as the ruler of the country himself. Be it at dawn, morning, night, or dusk, should the emperor command he desires company, then he will be accompanied.

Satisfying the ruler, however, is another matter.

The guard, surprised by the sight of silver eyes turning to him, bows down and shuts his eyes. “Not all of them are enough to meet your standards, Your Highness—”

“Then send them away,” he huffs, waving his hand dismissively with refined grace. The emperor’s words are cold—as they have always been—his expression remains unflinching as he says his command.

The guard sharply looks up, his face contorted into statuesque shock as he stammers. “B-but Your Highness! Someone among the six is of high quality!”

The emperor blinks, turns his head, and raises one brow. “Oh?”

That one word sparks enough reassurance for the guard, and he quickly stands up and salutes. “Yes, sir!” and he turns to another guard and barks his orders. “Get it here!”

And the emperor’s interest is piqued as the loud screaming of the guards trying to quiet down the person that dares to disturb the peace of his palace echoes louder and louder in the halls. His eyelids flutter as he stares at the doors with a bored expression, masking the growing interest behind shining silver eyes.

A rare, high-quality slave is rare to find nowadays, and never has he ever found one worthy of his attention for more than two days.

The emperor’s ears perk up as the sound of someone struggling to yell rebounds throughout the halls.

“Kneel down!” the guard shouts, and pushes the stumbling figure to the floor, the struggling heap’s body resounding a dull thud on the wood.

The high-quality slave in question, clad in a brown, tattered tunic, staggers to stand up, only to be stepped on the head by a growling spearman.

“I said, ‘kneel’, you worthless—”

“Stop.”

The emperor’s chin tilts upwards, his nose and head hold high as he stands up and steps down from his comfortable throne, his small, bare feet pattering on the cold, wooden floor.

Silver eyes are trained on the groaning mass of flesh; he blinks as he peers down on the shivering mess of—

“Look at me,” he drawls, nudging his foot on the mass of dirty and messy brown hair.

The figure groans, shivers as his body wracks a violent cough.

And the emperor grimaces, glares at his guards, and sets his knees on the floor, his eyes peering at the miserable creature in front of him.

He grabs at the mop of brown locks and twists them in his fist, brows furrowing as a pained scream rips through chapped lips.

“Let go of me!”

The emperor blinks, and hastily lets go of the screaming boy.

The boy, barely out of his teens judging from his build, spits profanities the moment their eyes meet.

The boy’s eyes are a startling shade of blue and green.

“Die, you greedy bastard!” the boy spits out, his eyes showing nothing but pure anger upon seeing the emperor moving away. He kicks and struggles despite the guards resolve on pinning him down, but to no avail. The boy bites the arm of one of the guards, and the boy goes free as he swoops in and slides to the emperor’s unfazed stance.

The guards yell out as they try to stop the boy, yet the emperor does nothing but to stand and raise an eyebrow the moment the feisty boy raises his fist against him.

“What is it that you seek so much that you want me dead?” the emperor asks calmly, his expression unchanging even as the fist almost collides with his nose.

The boy halts mid-punch, and his eyes widen at the question. clearly wondering just what the man means.

The boy slowly puts down his raised fist, teal eyes still glaring at that stoic face.

“I want my freedom back,” the boy says simply, and the emperor tilts his head and blinks as he crosses his arms and regards the boy with an almost morbid fascination.

Such naïve words are uttered from that foul mouth.

“Well, that cannot do,” he shrugs, and turns his back at the gnashing boy, “because everything that I desire, I shall have. And I want this land. This land that you have lived for probably all your life. I have claimed it fair and square. And all the inhabitants of this land are now mine.”

“To hell with you!” The boy shrieks and stomps, very much like a petulant child denied of something that he wants, and he grits his teeth as he seethes. “All of my family died in that senseless war! We merchants lost everything because of you! You took our lives just because you think this is a game!”

The emperor hums, tilts his head this way and that, and idly looks at his nails as he lets the boy ramble on.

“A game, you say? Hah.” He turns to the fuming boy, and sees nothing but fiery wrath in his eyes. He almost laughs at the sight, and almost smiles at the way the boy tries to rein in his anger.

Letting his emotions run free, with his heart placed on his sleeve—it is the first mistake in a battle.

The emperor eyes the boy, and deeply takes in his appearance. Skin kissed by the sun. An able-bodied male, with indentions etched on the muscles at all the right places. A pair of fiery eyes that smolders anyone who dares blocks his path. A face that rivals the wrath of the heavens itself. A foul mouth that never seems to stop to say what it wants. A brave and impulsive soul that yields to no one.

Ah.

He has found it.

The emperor smirks.

“New blood. Is this the high-quality one you told me of?” Cloudy, silver eyes glance at the quivering guard, and he almost chuckles at the jittery man.

“He’s the one, sir!”

The emperor’s lips part, and an almost-smile graces his features.

He circles the boy, staring him up and down like a hunter waiting to devour his prey. He crosses one arm on his chest as the other supports his chin, slender fingers tapping his lips as he eyes the dirt that has taken up space on the tanned skin, and grimaces, but says nothing. He looks at those calves, noting the little scars there. He notes his legs, legs that are slightly longer and thicker than his, and sees that he is quite fit. He bites his lip at those clenched fists that are larger than his, notes the way the joints and knuckles protrude, and dares to think what things he could make the boy do with those large hands.

He holds back a smirk and hums at the tunic-clad torso, and frowns upon realizing he cannot see what he wants to see.

He eyes those shoulders, all squared and stiff from suppressed anger, and the emperor nods quite approvingly. The emperor’s thumb nestles on his bottom lip as he stares at a slender throat, liking the way his Adam’s apple bobs as the boy swallows. He notes the developing chiseled jaw, the nice pair of lips, currently thinned from trying to hold back words. He observes the thin, sharp nose, and stares at those captivating eyes.

A truly, truly enchanting boy.

“How old are you?” the emperor finally asks and licks his lips, inching closer to the boy, and from the corner of his eye, he sees the guards readying for an attack, and silences them with a glare. He returns his sights on him, and for once, he does not mind the apparent height difference as he stands on his tiptoes, trying to gauge more of the boy’s façade.

The boy swallows audibly, and the emperor basks in the way that throat moves, and he holds back a groan.

“Sixteen,” the boy grits out, brows still furrowed as the ruler moves closer, blatantly ignoring the sense of personal space as he is scrutinized by a pair of sharp eyes. He hears the odd man hum, and dares not to raise his hackles as the tip of his nose bumps to his.

“Boy, do you know where you are?”

“In the castle of the ruler of the Eagle country. Emperor Levi.”

The emperor smirks, shows his teeth as he looks at the boy’s unwavering glare. He touches his face with his hands, surprised at himself for touching someone that’s practically covered in dirt. He leans in to the boy, cocks his head as he speaks.

“ _Kneel to me._ ”

And the reaction is instant.

A spit to his face. A loud, “Die!”—

—and a sharp kick to the boy’s stomach.

The boy coughs, splutters out a curse, and is brought to his knees as the emperor’s heel grinds on his scalp. The guards ready their weapons, and the emperor glares at them—they acquiesce, and bow their heads in apology.

He huffs as the boy starts to scream. The more he plants his foot on his skull, the louder his screams become. And he hums, nudges the boy’s face with his foot, and is met with a deadly glare. He presses his foot on those boyish cheeks, and almost laughs at his face.

“You’re tenacious. Tenacious, but stupid.” And he hears a laugh from the wheezing boy, and the emperor raises his brow, “What’s so funny?”

“’ve been called by people like that many times. Not really prou’ of it, but i’ is what I am.”

“You are in my abode. Do you really think you can kill me with what little power you have?”

“No, don’ think so. But ’d like t’ try.”

And the ruler’s eyebrows rise, and the smallest hint of a smirk paints his face. He removes his foot from him, and the emperor crouches and grips his hair once more.

The emperor’s eyes shine as they see that ever-present glare, and he smirks at how easily the boy’s head lolls in his grip.

“Get him a room,” he orders, and one of the guards pipe up, gulping as he stammers for an answer.

“But the dungeon is already filled with the previous slaves from the—”

“I didn’t mean the dungeon.”

The three guards look warily at each other, and one of them hesitantly speaks. “But that part of the castle is already occupied with all of your—”

“Move him to the biggest room in the paramour hall.”

“But sir, no one has ever resided in th—”

“And that is why I’m ordering you to move him there.”

A stern glare quiets down the guards’ questions, and the emperor looks at the weakened boy once more.

“What is your name, merchant?”

It takes a few seconds for the question to register in the boy’s mind, and when it does, he quietly breathes out. “Eren.”

“Eren,” the emperor repeats, testing the sound of his name on his lips, and the grip on his hair loosens as he caresses his cheeks once more.

His breath hovers on the boy’s lips, and he mouths his words to him.

“ _Welcome to my kingdom, Courtesan Eren._ ”

* * *

_A fearsome, little tyrant, he ruled at just 16_

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thank my readers in both FFN and Ao3 in advance! :D

* * *

_He governed over his country with an iron fist_

* * *

Eren is thrown in a dark room, illuminated by candles that smell very much like rose oil.

“Get in there, you scum,” one of the guards snarls. And another one, the spearman, tries to diffuse the irritation of the guard.

“Hey, stop it, Reiner. He says that we shouldn’t treat him bad—”

“Easy for you to say because it wasn’t you who got their arm bitten. Get out of the way, Bert. I’ll teach him a lesson—”

“Reiner.”

The guard stops, and glares at the spearman, and seeing that he wouldn’t back down, Reiner sighs, and resorts to stare down at the wheezing boy on the floor.

“I don’t know the reason why the emperor chose you for this room. No one has ever lived here. Not even once. Take it as an act of generosity from him.”

And with that, the guards take their leave and shut the door, abandoning Eren in the cold room.

It isn’t until he feels the weight on his body being lightened that he raises his self, and takes in the sights of the room.

Heavily curtained windows. Maroon-painted walls. Warm air bathing everything in soft candlelight. A large bed big enough to fit three people. A large mirror by the nightstand. Another set of curtains, thin and white, leading to another room.

Eren weakly stands and wanders, begrudgingly, he says to himself, and sees the adjoining room is actually a bathroom—two statues carved into the shape of women carrying jars that stream out water stand behind the large pool in the middle of the room, and on the side, lined with marble, is a set of oils placed in glass bottles. He inspects them one by one—jasmine, acanthus, rose, gardenia, and all other nice scents that he is not familiar with. There are twenty bottles in all, all of them filled to the brim. His fingers slide on each one, and for the first time since he arrived in the castle five days ago, he realizes how filthy he has become. He notes his fingers, sees the dirt gathering under his nails, and he cringes.

Should his mother see them, he would not live to see another day.

He hesitantly looks at the pool of clean water, then at his clothes and his unkempt state, then at the bottles filled with oils.

He runs back to the doors of the room, and finds it closed.

He quickly returns to the bath, grabs one bottle, and sniffs it—bergamot—and he carefully strips himself and dips into the water, and he places the flask near his discarded clothes.

He sighs as the water licks his skin, eyeing the wide, marbled ceilings painted in eggshell white, and he idly remembers how he ended up in the hands of the Eagle country.

He had lived with his family—his mother, father, and adopted sister—in the center of the Tiger country. A peaceful and benign country that specialized in trade and was bountiful in resources, the ruler had his country running smoothly, one might even call it Paradise itself. The Tiger country had had a vast amount of alliances in the neighboring kingdoms—among them is the Eagle country.

Benevolent and kind emperor that he was, the Tiger country had welcomed the Eagle country as its alliance, and sought to expand its resources with the help of the Eagle’s ruler.

But a few months prior, something had shifted the balance of the alliance. Corrupt officials have slithered its way to the Tiger’s land, black markets have been built, sidelong glances have been made to the ruler’s throne—and before they knew it, spies from the neighboring kingdom have infiltrated the palace and have secretly spread their influence on the right-minded officials, bribing them with more land at the cost of money, more resources at the cost of salt, more livestock, more weapons for war, more _everything_.

The scale of balance between the rich and the poor had slowly tipped.

One thing had led to another, and soon after, chaos had disturbed the country.

Those who oppose the officials have had their houses burned. Those who have had tried to raise a rebellion are quelled at the cost of their families being burned alive. Those who tried and sided with the king have had their heads cut off.

The king and his family have escaped the night the Tiger country wailed its last cry. Its people had seen their land burn to ashes in the dead of a night, have seen their loved ones scream and cry for help as corpses piled high on the ashes. Either burning or a spear to the head killed those who have tried to escape, and those who the soldiers think as exceptional in beauty, they captured and were served as slaves to the emperor of Eagle.

Eren is one of those captured.

He grumbles. How he has ended up here, he cannot remember vividly, as he had been blindfolded and gagged for the past few days. A slip of water and occasional gruel and some chicken has slipped in between his abused lips during the time of his captivity. Despite not even tasting the food down his throat, he has savored all that he could.

Eat to survive, those words have been said to him by his late sister—and those words are now ringing in his ears more than ever.

He vividly remembers the moment his mother had pushed him far from her, to save him from the falling rubble of what had once been their house. He saw her get crushed by the chimney and her blood splattered all over his face. He remembers how his father had taken him and his sister away from their house, and how they have been seen by one of the spearmen burning down the houses. He remembers having his father ripped away from his hands, and saw how they have stabbed him in the head. He remembers having a loss of his own voice from screaming, trembling and alone as he recalls his sister being tied up and tossed in the fire, burning her alive in the pyre that had housed the corpses.

“How could I even survive in this place, Mikasa,” he slouches as a tear slips from his eye, runs his fingers through his hair, and swims over to the cascading water, letting it flow down his body. He hasn’t bathed like this ever since he could remember. Sure, he used to be in a merchant family, but even their wealth has its limits. Despite the urgency to quickly kill the man who has taken away everything that he has held dear, Eren knows he will die in the palace in no time if he makes the wrong move.

Eren growls, pulls at his hair with an angry cry of frustration. He is livid, and refuses to admit that he has lost his family and his friends. He cups his face in his hands, finally sobbing freely in the silence of the room, and idly wonders if taking his own life by drowning is the only way he can achieve salvation.

The water blankets his skin with warmth, and seems to calm him down after what he deems as hours of crying, even though it has only been a few minutes. He pays it no mind as his fingers start to wrinkle under the water, and he decides to wash himself with the oil he has grabbed earlier.

In a moment’s abandon, Eren fails to notice a figure lurking by the corner, watching his every move with narrow, silver eyes.

* * *

Eren first thinks of a life in slavery as something so repulsive, having to work day in and day out, breaking all the bones in your body just to please someone—but never has he thought of it as, dare he say it, uplifting.

He has been in the palace for ten months now, and has started to take in the rules of the palace. Every morning at dawn, he wakes up, bathes, eats, cleans after himself—as he has requested since his official first day—and faces the palace with his head hold high.

He has made a number of acquaintances, some servants, some courtesans, some faceless, some not—he has not gotten the time to remember all of them, as they are too busy to prepare their selves for the emperor.

Soldiers bearing the flag of the Eagle country fly high as they march around the castle, boosting the people’s morale with their words claiming freedom for all. An evergreen robe-clad Eren passes by a storage room, and huffs upon hearing the soldiers’ cries. Freedom is not to be achieved in such a place, he muses.

He glances back, to where his recent confrère, a boy by the name of Armin, follows him. Eren, at first, brushes him off as a nuisance, but when he has been told that it is an order from the emperor himself that Eren is to have a helper of his own, Eren reconsiders his thoughts.

“Are you well today, Armin?” he asks, turning to fully face the bowing boy. He is meek, rarely speaks unless he is spoken to, and Eren likes that. The boy simply nods, but doesn’t meet his gaze. Eren hums and sighs, and resumes walking.

He can never really get a real sentence out of him.

He passes by a pair of guards, and Eren ignores the stares he receives. Since he has lived in the paramour hall, and has been taught by the mentor of all courtesans in the palace, all he has ever been given are the sneaky sidelong glances from the soldiers he passes by, and he notes their interest with ever-growing boredom. Though he keeps a smile on his face as he interacts with others, when it comes to the soldiers, he mood turns instantly sour, probably because of the way he had been treated initially.

One certain soldier sees Eren pass by the dining hall, and he splutters his drink to another soldier.

“Hey, did you see that?” Reiner hastily taps Bertolt on the shoulder, his eyes never leaving the stern-faced Eren. Bertolt, slightly miffed at the beer that has just been spluttered to his face, trails his eyes to where Reiner points, and Bertolt shrugs as he wipes his face.

“It’s Eren. What about it?”

And Reiner looks at his friend like he has just declared something surprising. “I _know_ that’s him. But what I mean is,” he gestures wildly, pointing to the retreating Eren, then waves his hands downwards, “when did he become so—so—”

“Attractive? Seductive? The emperor’s jewel?”

Reiner quickly nods dumbly, not trusting his mouth to spout words on how to describe the way Eren has just transformed into something so otherworldly in a matter of months.

“That’s Lady Petra’s work for you. She has molded him from a rock and foulmouthed heap to a refined and graceful courtesan worthy of the emperor’s attention. Why? You suddenly found a fancy for him?” Bertolt leans back and tuts, and laughs at the way Reiner splutters incoherencies and denies such an accusation.

“How could I even—I’m not like him!” he almost shouts, and lowers his voice in a harsh whisper as he shakes Bertolt’s shoulders with a red face. “Don’t compare me to him.”

“Who says I’m comparing him to you?” Bertolt asks, and smiles at his companion. “You’re the one who declares comparing yourself to him.” And he laughs upon seeing Reiner’s eyes go wide, and he buries his face in his hands.

“Don’t mention that to the emperor. He’ll kill me,” he says in a resigned sigh, and Bertolt shrugs once more.

“I never plan to.”

And a comfortable silence settles over them, and both look at Eren, the previously filthy, vulgar and unkempt Eren. He now dons flowing robes that conceal his tanned body, the top layer being a striking evergreen one, a strike contrast to the dirty thing that he first came in with. His hair shines in the reflection of the light, creating a halo over him if the sunrays hit him just right. He has grown taller in a matter of few months, and is now leaner, tanner, and handsomer, and he carries himself with confidence as he strides down the halls with a purpose.

And that purpose is to go to the place where _he_ currently resides.

The doors to the room open, and in comes Eren striding into the emperor’s quarters, beryl eyes set hard and determined with each step as he strides closer to the emperor who is currently sprawled all over his throne—his daily habit. The emperor’s robe is slipped down his shoulders as usual, revealing a sheer amount of marbled skin. Eren makes sure not to distract himself with the sight of it like last time, where he almost crawled his hands all over the emperor’s chest—

“Your Highness,” he starts, huffing out his title like it sounded disgusting to his ears, “why have you been avoiding my visits to your quarters recently? Do you not want me anymore?”

At the question, the emperor slowly opens his eyes, and regards Eren with his usual bored stare.

The boy is as direct as ever.

“We are currently in the middle of another war. There is no time to waste by—”

“But you are seeking the company of others. Have I finally fallen from your favor? Thrown and cast away like how you did with the others?” And Eren crosses his arms and taps his foot, and looks down on the emperor like how a wife would to an unfaithful husband. He hears the emperor sigh and chuckle, and the ruler closes his eyes for a moment, only for them to snap open when he feels a familiar weight settling on his stomach. 

A grumpy Eren straddles his middle, still with his arms crossed. “Don’t laugh at me,” he says sternly, “and don’t dodge the question.”

The emperor lazily blinks, his face as stoic as ever even as he feels the whole room has their eyes on them. He almost shrugs at their appalled faces, especially the new ones. 

“I cannot have you yet,” the emperor says simply, “it’s not the right time.”

“Then when is? I’ve followed all that you asked me to, and more. Let myself be taught by the head courtesan. Let myself be trained as a whore—”

“Stop that. You are not like that.”

“Then what am I, Levi.”

The room grows heavily silent, feels the room become smaller as the one who sits on him says his name.

He repeats the question.

“Levi, what am I to you?”

A hand settles on his hip, “Eren. Get off.”

“Oh I will if you tell me what I am to you.”

The emperor sighs, and shuts his eyes as he heaves a deep breath, and from an earshot, Eren hears a whisper.

“ _He just called the emperor by his name._ ”

Eren’s brow rises.

“Do you think nothing of me, after all?”

The emperor’s face scrunches, and looks at him with irritation. “It is not like that. Stop acting like a needy little—”

His words are cut off as Eren coils his fists on his robe and pulls him away from the armrest. 

“Listen here, you—” 

The guards instantly yell out, and are about to take out their weapons to kill Eren there and then, but they are stopped by one deadly glare from both the emperor and the courtesan.

Eren’s glare return to him, and he hisses, spits out his words. “I will act however I want, _Your Highness_. I refuse to be tied down, remember? If you weren’t so keen as to ignore me for the past few months, you should’ve just killed me when you first saw me as I am clearly of no use to you whatsoever.” 

“Eren, shut up.” 

“Tell me _why._ ”

Now, normally the emperor would have had whoever dared to cross him beheaded, but here he is, currently being straddled and yelled at by a merchant-turned-courtesan, and being humiliated in front of his guards, no less. He should feel anger, but no—all he feels is an odd calm.

He idly wonders if that’s a good thing or not.

The emperor’s about to reply when the doors open once more, and the general of the armies enter the room. 

“Your Highness, we have finally succeeded in—what is going on here?”

The guards hold their breath as General Erwin’s eyes fall on the emperor—the emperor who is supposed to be lazily lounging on his throne—

His eyes sharply turn to the other man that Erwin supposes is the attacker. He points to Eren, “Get him out of here—”

“Don’t even think about trying to touch him.”

The words are slipped from the emperor’s mouth, and all eyes fall on him, looking at him as though he has just gone crazy.

“Sheathe your weapons, all of you. Erwin. What happened to the counterattack?” He talks as if nothing is out of the ordinary, as if he isn’t being weighed down and choked by someone bigger than him. 

The emperor wonders if it is a mistake.

The aforementioned general blinks, opens his mouth, closes it, and finally speaks lowly.

“Your Highness, what is the meaning of this.”

Trust Erwin not to let go of things without an argument.

“What is the meaning of what, Erwin. And don’t change the topic,” the emperor coolly replies, never turning his eyes from Eren the whole time.

The two glare at each other, silently daring the other to attack at any moment. Eren’s grip on his robe never once loosens, and the emperor’s grip on the courtesan’s waist tightens, makes sure enough to leave a bruise on that sun-kissed skin.

They hear the general take in a deep breath, and they sense his tension from his words.

Not that they will avert their glares from each other.

“Your Highness, please stop frolicking around.”

“I am not,” the emperor retorts, and he sees Eren scoff at the obvious lie.

There is a resigned sigh from the general, as though he were already used to seeing such a display everyday.

With a displeased look at the two on the throne, he speaks.

“We have conquered the neighboring state.”

“And the king?”

“Dead. As you ordered.”

The emperor smirks at Eren’s bubbling rage.

“Pompous little bastard,” he hisses, and the emperor merely shrugs, clearly not denying the supposed insult.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” and he finally turns away from him, looks at the general standing just a few feet away from him, and hums to himself.

The general looks dashing, as always. With his handsome face and his blond hair pulled back, and with his platinum armor covering his well-built body, he looks like the impeccable and strict man that he is. With piercing eyes that are of the summer sky, the emperor is sure that women from far and wide swoon at his feet on a daily basis. He huffs either way.

They will never have him, anyway. He belongs to the emperor—not that he has taken a claim on him.

The ruler hears a deep growl from above him, and he glances at the boy gnashing his teeth.

“What.”

“You didn’t answer my question, _Your Highness._ ”

The general gasps, and opens his mouth to cut in at the blatant disrespectful tone—

“I will answer you in due time.”

“Why not now.”

“Because you are to prepare for the celebration in next few weeks. For us getting another mass of land.”

“You are full of yourself. Insatiable and utterly disgusting.”

“Thank you.”

Eren growls and lets go of the emperor’s robe roughly, and his gaze lingers a moment too long at his currently rumpled appearance—he curses himself.

He notices the emperor still staring at him, and he scoffs and removes himself from him.

Straightening his robe, he glares back at the now smirking emperor, still reclining on the armrests like a drunken man. And Eren mutters a curse and an insult only for the emperor to hear. He grunts, and looks at Armin, who has stood in a corner the whole time, visibly shaking and looking quite frightened for reasons unknown to him. Eren cocks his head, confused, and walks back to him, sparing the general a sidelong glare as he passes by. 

“Come, Armin,” and he saunters away in the same dignified manner he has walked in before, leaving the general and the emperor and a couple of guards in the room. Armin squeaks and nods and follows after him with clumsy steps, trying to keep up with the courtesan’s long strides.

Erwin’s eyes run after the retreating figure, notices how the boy’s robes bellow in the wind with each confident step.

It is long before he realizes that the boy is gone, and it is only then that the emperor speaks up with amusement lacing his tone.

“Interesting one, isn’t he?”

Blue eyes lock with silver ones, and Erwin’s lips set into a thin line, hinting his disapproval. And as though sensing the impending lecture, the emperor faces his palms upwards and shrugs.

“What? He is interesting to me.”

“Your Highness, could you please stop all this playing around you’ve been doing? You’ve been sitting here for too long, entertaining yourself with men and women—”

The emperor sighs and rolls his eyes, muttering. “Not again.”

“—and now I see you being degraded by some wretched whore you have picked up—!”

“Don’t even think of him that way, Erwin. He is not what you think he is.”

Silence settles in the room, and the guards sense the clouds gathering over the general and emperor’s heads.

Stubborn beings, they are.

“Then what is he to you?"

“Again with that question. Why does everyone ask me this today?”

“By everyone, you mean the boy that just left.” 

The emperor crosses his arms and looks at the ceiling, rolls the joints of his feet, and hums, not saying anything else. 

“Was that the new boy you’ve been talking about? The one who spat on you?” 

“Why make it a big deal,” he replies, looking at his nails in boredom, “not that we don’t know that the people outside want to do more than just spit on me, anyway. Besides, I won’t die from that—” He laughs in morbid amusement at the memory of the boy, “Though I admit, it really was disgusting.”

“That’s not the point, Levi.”

The emperor’s laugh turns into a snarl, and sharply turns to Erwin.

The guards look at each other and nod to themselves, quickly making a quick exit before everything turns ugly.

They all know that once the general utters the emperor’s name, it could only mean that it involves a serious matter—and they want no part of it.

“Then what is.” He rocks his feet, impatient. He is now irritable, and he blames it on the fact that Erwin has chosen the wrong time to barge in. He was about to have some fun—!

“You have given him the grandest room next to yours.”

A twitch on an eyebrow. “And?” 

“You treat him differently than the others, yet you haven’t laid down with him for sexual favors, only seeking his company to talk about trifle matters. It puzzles me and the ranks.”

“What I do in my free time is not for you lot to decide and scrutinize on. Besides, I’m not here to please any of you sweat-drenched pawns.” 

Erwin’s brows curl downwards, his face set in deep concentration, trying to decipher the odd behavior of his emperor.

He has seen it before, how the emperor treats his paramours. Men and women drape on him like blankets on a bed, lavishing him with undivided attention as they lay their naked bodies on his barely-clad self. He has seen how rough and hard he could be when he takes in a consort, how he could be strange and shocking in having multiple people on him at once—on his leaking sex, on his face, on his heaving chest. He remains completely unfazed even as a random guard accidentally barges in and splutters apologies in his wake. He keeps on going, his face and neck red and his body glistening in sweat by the candlelight as he grunts and groans, unrestrained in his voice as he rams into a faceless man, woman, or both. He remains relentless, choosing passion over the urgency to actually rule a country—though his iron fist makes up for it.

The emperor cares not of what other people think of him, and yet they don’t question him out loud—on why their ruler is a shameless monarch, why he has chosen to lay not only with women, but also with men, and he makes no effort to hide it. In fact, he shows it to all. He doesn’t hide in the shadows when he seeks someone’s company, and often leaves the doors to his quarters open for all to see. He does not care if anyone sees him in the nude, does not care if he puts on a brazen display to his officials.

He is his own self, not tied by the rules of his own kingdom.

And Erwin oftentimes thinks if his emperor is a loon. Surely, one as influential as the Eagle country’s emperor would be considered a lunatic if they are to be seen buck-naked and rutting a prostitute in his own bedroom and not feeling the slightest bit of embarrassment for it when it ends.

How the emperor treats the new courtesan, however, is on a different scale. 

He has never been seen with him for more than two hours. And at the rare times that they are seen together, they simply talk—one haughty and narcissistic, and one brash and impulsive. Never has anyone seen him try and touch the courtesan in a lecherous manner, and they all wonder why, for usually, the emperor, upon seeing a pretty face, would ceaselessly seduce him or her and take them to his quarters from morning till night.

It is the first time that the emperor has refused to lay down with a courtesan that he has chosen.

The soldiers and guards and officials have had an unspoken agreement never to say anything about the matter, if they want to keep their lives, that is.

Erwin sighs as he looks at the stubborn pout that has formed on the emperor’s face, sees his brows furrow, and sees his hands cross over his chest.

A stubborn being, he is.

“Just be sure to never let your guard down, Your Highness.” And General Erwin leaves with a half-hearted salute. 

The emperor is left alone in the large, silent room.

And just like that, he reverts to his actual self, to one lonely Levi—and not the one that holds an entire empire in the palm of his hand.

“You don’t decide what I get to do,” he whispers to himself.

* * *

  _For most of his reign, the people were powerless_

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eren has had enough of Levi's ignorance, decides it's time for payback.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for I’m about to give you a mental image of Levi being in a group orgy. Oh wait.
> 
> I’m not sorry.

* * *

_Those who would dare to try and take his influence_

* * *

Eren walks down the markets of the Eagle country, and later realizes that he has been laying his eyes on what used to be his home. Now, the fields that he used to play on are now littered with kiosks and merchants urging passersby to take a look at their goods.

He doesn’t let it trouble him. Not now. Not now that he has been building his wall to recovery.

He hums as he passes by a woman selling silk, and points to one of the long fabrics displayed. 

“How much is that?” he inquires with a smile, and just like that, he feels as though he has just reverted back to being the merchant that he once had been. For a moment, he forgets that he has been remodeled to service others in the form of selling his body—especially to the emperor himself.

Now, only if he can actually serve his purpose in servicing the emperor himself.

He shivers at the thought.

He idly recalls how he has accidentally walked in on the emperor and his consorts—that has been a few months back, when he has started to get a couple of new clients.

He has been with Armin that day. As timid as ever, he has followed Eren wherever he goes, and at that time, he has gone to the emperor to make his weekly visit. Despite being shunned every time he does so, he cares not for the sights that have greeted him every time he drops by his quarters.

Slithering hands caressing the emperor’s pale skin, placing open-mouthed kisses on his flesh—his paramours hold nothing back. The women flaunt their chests on his face, planting their soft dunes on his open mouth with a keening moan, welcoming them with a languid lick and obscene sucks on their perky teats. The men, more brazen than the women, drive their hands all over the delectable expanse of his chest, raking shaky nails down his marbled physique, moaning at the feel of his muscles on their clammy palms. They shamelessly place themselves on him, showing their too eager entrances to his eyes—and he licks them, prods them and toys with them until they are all red and quivering in the mercy of his skillful fingers, often squeezing the life out of those plump globes of flesh as he does so.

And Eren had observed it all from the outside, silently looked at them with blank, beryl eyes.

He has watched him sigh and chuckle and smirk as he slapped a meaty thigh and breast, has watched him lick his lips as he kissed and nipped and bit on a keening man’s fleshy buttock. He has seen him in the throes of ecstasy, his head thrown back, panting and sweating and grunting as he partook in other men and women’s lust-laden bodies. He has watched him gasp and curl on the duvet, breathing out a quiet sigh of what Eren has assumed as contentment, and it has always been at those times that Eren leaves with no word of his arrival.

The emperor has never once laid his hands on Eren like that.

And Eren has always wondered why. He has seen the way he looks at him since they first met, with those burning gray eyes searing liquid fire as he runs his gaze all over his bronzed skin. He knows how those lips curl in a devious smile whenever Eren graces him with his presence. He knows how much those small hands want to ravish his flesh, marking and indenting them and making him all the emperor’s property.

But _no_. He hasn’t touched him. Not even once.

And some sick, twisted, deranged part of Eren wants to know _why_.

At one point, he has even thought about asking Armin if he has turned unattractive to the emperor’s eyes, but he has stopped before he could actually ask about it, not wanting to come off as a cheap and demanding prostitute.

“Oh. That’s 30 dems,” the woman says, and Eren nods as he takes out a bag filled to the brim with coins more than enough to buy the silk.

“I’ll have five yards of those,” Eren says, and he turns to Armin, “would you like me to buy you something?”

And the timid boy quickly shakes his head, bowing and muttering apologies.

Eren shrugs and looks at the goods in display, “Also, that fine robe over there.”

The lady traces where Eren points, and she smiles, “You have a good eye, sir.” She lays out the robe in question, a robe spun in the finest of silk. “Perchance, this will be for your lovely wife?”

Eren glances at Armin, who gulps and tries to stammer out a reply, but Eren cuts him off with a cold and quick, “It is for me.”

He takes the garment and the fabric, gives her the money, and wordlessly walks away.

Armin bows in apology, and runs after the irate Eren.

* * *

“You didn’t have to be rude to that lady,” Armin silently says to a pouting Eren standing in front of the mirror. He has been fixing Eren’s attire for the past few hours now.

“I wasn’t being rude,” Eren retorts, trying to lower the pitch of his voice at the accusation, “it’s her fault for assuming things.”

Armin shakes his head and smiles nonetheless, and looks at Eren from where he kneels. “You’re a courtesan of the emperor, Eren. And you should act like one. Now, hold still, I just need to fix this last hem.”

Eren looks away, turns his attention at the trinkets littered on top of his dresser, “Well, he should act like an emperor, for once. His men have captured me and taken me here, and that tiny, arrogant thing suddenly decided to jump in on me and put me in his collection of toys in a glass cabinet, never to be used.”

“You’re not a toy to his eyes, Eren.”

“Then what am I to him…?”

The question comes off as a sad one, his words like a broken song to Armin’s ears, and for a moment, he feels sadness and pity for the one considered as the Emperor’s Jewel. He says nothing to him, letting the sound of the shuffling cloth serve as the noise filling the room. There is a heavy silence in the air, both wanting and not wanting to speak. Armin has known what type of living Eren has been to, yet he has done and said nothing in return, not even a hint of how he himself had ended up in the Eagle’s palace.

Armin stands up, and places the recently bought silk robe on Eren. A large robe of bright red hue is draped on his shoulders, and Eren cocks his head, sees something amiss, and he claps his hands. He reaches for the nightstand and combs his hair back, and lets it fall back into place, smiling at the way the loose strands frame his face. He then slips his robes from his shoulder blades, lets it pool just beneath his armpits, holds the collar into place, and clasps it on his chest with a jade brooch.

Eren looks at himself in the mirror, sees how his collarbones protrude, sees the expanse of his throat, sees the gentle curve of his shoulders—and he wonders what the emperor has seen in him.

“I have done everything that I could for him to look at me,” he says in a quiet whisper, and Armin thinks that those are words not meant for him to hear, but Armin hums.

He looks at Armin through his reflection, his smile soft and bashful. “Am I satisfactory to the emperor now?”

And Armin, kind and gentle Armin, returns his smile with a shy nod and a pat to his shoulders, and he blinks away tears threatening to fall from his eyes.

Eren may not say it, but all the signs are clearly there—wanting to please the ruler with all that he can, constantly seeking for his audience, constantly looking at him from afar, constantly seeing sadness in his eyes time and again as he lays eyes on the emperor seeking the body of another.

Blond locks lay on his shoulder, and Armin rests his head there. He hears Eren hum, but says nothing as Armin closes his eyes. 

Somewhere along the thin line between his hatred and thinly-veiled affection, the courtesan has fallen in love with the emperor that has ruined his very life—as to why and how, that is something Armin has yet to find out. 

Denial, the courtesan is in—and Armin dares not to say it to him, fearing the repercussions it may entail.

“Sadness eternally follows the lonely path of the courtesan. Let me tell you now, Eren.”

Armin leans in close to the shell of his ear.

“ _Never fall in love._ ”

* * *

Eren sees the niceties of the palace once more as he leaves his room, with a smiling Armin following him from behind. The courtesan smiles politely at the servants he sees, and greets the soldiers with a hint of a barely-there smile. It has always been that way.

Today marks the tenth time of his visit to the emperor, all of which he has been ignored in favor of pleasing his flesh. Eren swallows the bile from his throat, crushes the feeling of sadness overwhelming him, and forces himself not to wrap his whole body in his robes.

The cold months are approaching, and Eren hates them.

The loafers he wears make his feet ache with each step he takes, feeling the socks are not enough to keep him safe from the bitter cold.

“Um, Eren…?”

Eren stops in his steps, and glances at a bowing Armin. 

“If you want, I could just go to the emperor and ask him—”

“No. I’ll go there myself. You are not to see that horrid display.” He turns his back to him and walks away, and Armin shakes his head to himself.

Armin himself has seen that ‘horrid display’—too many times to count, and he has seen them longer than Eren’s stay in the palace.

He’ll never say it to the courtesan, though.

The king’s quarters are warm, very warm, and Eren wonders if they have always been this way. He passes by four guards, all of which he is sure that they follow his movements with their eyes, and for a moment, Eren asks himself why he has been keeping this up—of continuously seeking for his audience.

As soon as he nears the doors leading to the emperor’s quarters, he hears the telltale grunt and sigh and occasional breathy laugh from the emperor, and Eren’s stomach lurches at the sound.

He stands a foot away from the doors, not wanting to see the all-too familiar display of him being drenched in naked bodies craving to his every need.

He hears a guttural groan, hears a woman gasp and laugh, and Eren closes his eyes.

“Announce me,” he whispers to Armin, and he bravely does just as that.

The breathy sighs and the tittering in the room gradually stop, and Eren feels his heart doing the same.

A distant, “Come in” shoves Eren out of his thoughts, and he gulps as he steps forward, making sure to hold his head high. 

Never fall in love—Armin’s words ring ominously in Eren’s consciousness.

“Your Highness,” he starts, and bows upon seeing the emperor draped on a duvet, like always. Eren kneels, stares at the floor, and closes his eyes, making sure not to make eye contact with the man that has trampled on his life. He lowers his hands to the floor, making sure his robes slip further from his shoulders than what is necessary. He feels a draft creep up to his skin, feels it tickle his now exposed chest, but he shrugs it away in favor of letting those silver eyes trail on him once more. “I trust it you have had a good day?” It is small talk, he is sure, but Eren grasps whatever he can to keep the emperor from looking away from him.

There is a familiar hum and a hushed whisper, a sultry vibrato from the emperor, and the vexing sound of giggles from the women soon follow. Eren refuses to look.

“I have had a good day, yes,” the emperor drawls lazily. The sound of him sipping liquid falls on Eren’s ear—wine, perhaps? “I take it you too have had a good day? What brings you here, Courtesan Eren?” His tone is airy, lacks the usual sharpness in his voice, though the hint of arrogance is there. And the courtesan blames it on the stench of wine, maybe even on the flock of men and women currently surrounding him.

Eren mentally berates himself. Don’t let your emotions sway you, Armin once told him—

Oh, how truly right he is. 

“Eren? Why are you here?”

Eren’s shoulders tense.

The mere sound of him saying his name—it’s enough to light his body on fire—yet Eren says nothing.

He quickly thinks of an excuse to talk to him. It is a whim, just a whim, but a nagging thought in his head has been rearing its evilness to him for the past few days.

It is just an idea, a wild conjecture on his part, but it is a long shot, a what-if sort of situation—

—to see if he can ruffle the feathers of the pompous emperor.

“I am to go away from the palace in the next few days, I am to return to my hometown—”

The reaction is immediate.

“And what makes you think I will agree to it?”

Eren smiles to himself— _got you_.

The giggling horde stops completely, and Eren doesn’t flinch at the sound of a squeal and of a body hitting the floor with a loud thud. He stops his heart from hammering against his chest as the emperor roughly stands and stomps his bare feet on the cold floor and approaches the kneeling courtesan.

He doesn’t twitch even as he sees the emperor’s slender foot tap his chin.

“ _Look at me._ ”

Eren huffs.

“Why should I? You never spare me one glance.”

He hears the emperor grit his teeth, and is not surprised as his chin is painfully pulled towards the seething emperor, slender fingers digging into his clenched jaw.

“I choose not to.”

“Why?” Beryl eyes stare back at argent ones, neither of them looking away from the fierceness of it all—it has always been this way, a game that they have been playing since they first met.

Who will be the first to crumble in the palm of their hand?

The emperor growls, hisses out his reply, “You are my property—”

“That reply makes no sense. Besides, I have never been yours to begin with.”

Eren huffs, swats the emperor’s hand away, and stands. He bows to him—mockingly—and meets his searing silver gaze with a coy smirk. 

“I’ll be leaving for tonight, Your Highness. Don’t search for me,” he chuckles, and half-lidded eyes slip to the fuming emperor. “Oh wait—”

The courtesan glides to where the emperor stands, smiles on the shell of his ear, and whispers.

“ _—you never have._ ” 

Eren turns and leaves with a small smile, ignoring the furious yells from the emperor behind him.

“Eren you get back here right now!”

The courtesan does not spare him a glance, and he whispers to himself, only for a flustered Armin to hear.

“ _Feel the pain I’ve been feeling, Your Highness._ ”

* * *

Eren preens himself for the emperor, that’s no news. He does it daily—makes himself as presentable, as doll-like, and as appealing as possible. 

He looks at his reflection in the mirror, and sees a sad, young man staring back at him with dull, teal eyes coupled with dried up tears and unsightly, puffy cheeks.

Armin is not with him tonight, and makes no effort to shed a tear or two for his feelings quite unknown.

He wonders when has he fallen so low in the terms of pride and self-preservation. Hasn’t he been the one who has once been called the “Tiger of the North”?

Eren bites his lips as he recalls his previous title in the outside world. He had been one of the greatest merchants of the time, knowing every trick of the economy—how it works, what makes it tick, and what doesn’t.

He smirks to himself, his expression smug as he softly shakes his head, feeling the ends of his hair kiss his face, and he tucks a stray hair away from his countenance. Sighing, his fingers trace the outlines of his jaw, the shell of his ears, the soft curve of his lips—and he juts them out in a small pout, and lazily flutters his eyes.

He stares at himself in the mirror, sees the young man now looking back with a determined stare and eyes hardened with the cruelty that is life. He frowns.

“I haven’t been yours from the beginning, Your Highness.”

He stands up and twirls in front of the mirror, laughs at the way his robes flutter with his every move. He giggles at the feel of gossamer silk on his skin, chortles at the way its softness caresses his bronzed self, and for a moment, he remembers something that Lady Petra has recently told him— 

“‘Never show sadness—the heart of a courtesan is to smile at the fullest, even in the midst of a raging storm.’” 

He quietly recites what she has told him, and takes it to heart with a small smile and a soundless tear.

How he has fallen in love with the emperor that had destroyed his life, he will never know. Though, perhaps, if he should vaguely recall, it must be during the times when the emperor simply talks to him with nothing in return. They talk of philosophy, of the arts, of music, of distant lands and of the rare things in the growing world, both of them exchanging playful banters from time to time, and he wonders if he has fallen because of the way he talks about how he sees the world—merciless, cruel, and beautiful—

Eren spins and sighs and closes his eyes as he dances and pirouettes in the room like the wind—

At the back of his mind, he ponders how he has fallen for the cruel man’s charms—is it because of the emperor’s voice, dark and sultry and deep? Or is it because of the way he carries himself with utmost confidence, elegant and flawless in the way he talks and speaks? Or is it because of those dark, mysterious eyes, those entirely icy and unreadable silver orbs? Or is it because of his presence itself that brings Eren to his knees, completely torn between wanting to be at his mercy and wanting to dominate him completely?

Eren lets his head fall back as he twirls for one last time—and he heaves once he stops, feels the rise and fall of his exposed chest as he slowly places his foot on the ground and straightens himself—gracefully—and Eren lets his shoulders slack, and the ebb and flow of his tensions seem to lift, if only for a moment. A lazy smile paints his lips, and he glances at the doorway, where a silent Armin has been standing for quite some time. 

“I heard laughing here, and I thought you had a client tonight,” Armin explains with a chuckle as he enters the room and automatically fixes Eren’s hair. “I see you’re now in a good mood,” he observes, patting the sweat on Eren’s face with a towel as he did so. His fingers hover on the collar of Eren’s robe, and traces it with a sad smile, “Too bad the new garment we bought you to wear today didn’t even make his heart throb a little. And I thought it has nice details, too.”

Eren grins, and takes the towel from Armin’s hands, “Oh, I’ll use this peignoir, Armin. You don’t have to fret over that. I decided I’ll do it tonight.”

Armin blinks and cocks his head, finding it strange that his charge finds his situation with the emperor amusing. “Do what?”

Teal eyes meet blue—and Eren spins with a laugh, beams like a child.

“I will repay the emperor’s game with my own—see his very self crumble in my hands like how he did mine.”

* * *

_Would all be simply put into their deaths_

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Levi gets a taste of his own medicine.

* * *

_The little ruler then ripped his freedom and_

* * *

Armin, after assisting Eren with his bath, dolls the courtesan up for one last time, and opts to hum a happy tune for his charge. He sees the smile evident in the courtesan’s eyes, and he does not dare to ask why—

Judging from the way Eren has been thumbing and biting his bottom lip for the past few minutes in front of the mirror—the aide now has a general idea of what’s going through his mind.

“—and he had looked rather excited down there too when he forced me to look at him—”

“That’s because he was with his horde,” Armin rolls his eyes and sighs. “Eren, you’re talking to yourself again,” the blond laughs and looks at him through his reflection on the mirror, “and you’re blushing like mad.”

Eren blinks, tenses up, and blabbers incoherently, trying to explain himself, only to end in vain when Armin simply laughs out his embarrassment.

“Calm down, Eren. I was just teasing you.” He gives him a friendly hug from behind, smiles at him, and pats his shoulders, “I thought you hated him and his whole existence?”

He watches as Eren’s shoulders sag, from sadness or resignation, he doesn’t know, but something in the courtesan’s eyes tell him that what just happened in the emperor’s quarters hasn’t all been tension and screaming.

And then he sees it once more—that wide smile that Eren tries to hard to stifle, only to fail as he laughs and buries his face in his hands and on the wide sleeves of his robes. He blinks as he observes Eren go flustered, babbling incoherencies as he waves his hands furiously on his face, as though fanning his reddened face for whatever reasons that cannot possibly be because of the heat, and Eren buries his face once more like a young woman madly in love.

“I hate him, but I cannot hate him. I love him but I cannot love him. I want to kill him and yet I want him to live. I want to pull him to me yet I want to push him away. I want to touch him but I don’t want to touch him. Armin, why is this so?”

Ah.

There it is.

That helpless feeling blooming in one’s heart.

Armin’s lip curl upwards and listens to Eren babble his words away—the timid helper knows the feeling well, the soft and painful feeling of being in the clutches of the fickle thing called love.

Armin tries to calm Eren down, does it with a lilting joke and a hearty slap on the back, and Eren ceases to bounce on his feet like a spring, hums, and looks expectantly at the blond with wide, turquoise eyes.

“What is it?” Eren breathes out, and Armin beams at him just as wide as he tells him of a story that he has known quite well—the tale of him and his unspoken love.

He tells the courtesan of a man, a brave and righteous one, one who has ceaselessly shed flesh and blood for the sake of his country and its ruler. He tells him of a boy, then young and helpless and naïve, captured by the brave and righteous man. He tells him of the man—strong and gallant is he—that has saved him from the burning pyre that housed crying corpses. He tells him of the same man that has put him into slavery, forever to be kept in the place where the weeds grow outside the palace, and how that man has removed him from there, and has put him as a footman of the court of the palace, then later on, as a helper of sorts to a certain courtesan of the emperor. He tells him of how that man—whose eyes hold the whole blue sky in his gaze—has pulled away from him the day he has moved to the paramour hall with a smile, a kind and gentle one, and has given him a small memory to go by, and the man tells him goodbye.

A soldier is not to fall in love with the slaves in the emperor’s paramour hall.

And that young and helpless and naïve boy laments the loss of the gallant man’s tender smile.

“You’re in love with the general,” Eren surmises, quite surprised at the tale. Never has he seen Armin glance at the general of the armies, not even once, nor has he made the slightest mention of him during their idle talks.

“I have been a fool back then,” Armin laments, tearing his gaze away from Eren. “I was just a child that knows nothing of anything, blindly letting my heart decide on its own.” He laughs bitterly, and it rings a hollow lament to Eren’s ears. “The general has a wife to come home to, you see. And she is kind and cheerful and helpful to him—all the things that I cannot be, because I am not with him, because I am invisible to his eyes.”

Eren listens, and is saddened when he feels something damp drip on his hand. He pulls him close, hugs his helper, and whispers words of comfort.

“We will get through this,” the courtesan repeats, breathing his words to soft, blond locks. And Armin muffles a mournful cry on his robes, and soughs an echoing, rueful jeremiad, repeats it softly to Eren against the crook of his neck, sighing out the tears that have been kept a secret, hidden away for far too long from his bleeding heart—

“Never fall in love.”

And Eren wishes he could do just that.

* * *

Past midnight. Only the guards are seen prowling around the palace, doing their nightly rounds.

Eren scans his immediate vicinity, feels his blood pumping against his ears and his heart pounding against his chest. Behind him, Armin shivers and gingerly holds on to the outer garments of the courtesan as he, too, nervously looks around, as though expecting someone to pop out at any given moment.

“Eren, I don’t think this is a good idea, after all…”

“Oh, hush it, Armin,” he hisses, crouching behind the walls as they quickly run past a walking soldier. He holds Armin’s hand throughout, ignoring the coldness running through their palms.

They stop a few feet away from the emperor’s quarters, observing the guards that are walking back and forth from each end of the hall—two on each end. Eren curses and looks at Armin.

“You are to check if he is awake for the night, if he is, hurry and return here.”

Armin wordlessly does as he’s told, and he quickly returns to Eren, successfully avoiding the guards on his way.

“Um,” he pauses, gulps. Eren blinks, and in the moonlight, he sees Armin flushed, his face a shade too red.

And Eren realizes the situation in that room; he sighs and snarls as he glares at the direction of the emperor’s quarters.

“That damn oversexed prick doesn’t know when to stop, does he.”

Armin twiddles with his fingers and makes a sound that is between a whimper and a cry. “I’ll never get used to seeing him like that.”

Eren huffs, “Well I’m used to it by now.”

Armin chooses not to speak—his charge is a courtesan, after all.

Eren composes himself in mere seconds, pulls his hair back and lets it fall in place. He stands up, regal and elegant in posture, as though he hasn’t been bothered by the fact that he is to march in front of the emperor’s quarters once more.

Armin gives Eren one last pat on the shoulder, and bids him good luck.

“Return to me in one piece,” the blond whispers as he cups his face, bumping his forehead to the courtesan’s. “Please do all your best to take care of yourself.”

“It’s not like I’m going to die when I leave the palace, Armin.” He smiles, and hugs Armin with a small laugh, “You take care, too—if that big bad general ever lays a hand against you, kick him in the nuts.” And Armin laughs softly, and lets Eren run his hand through his blond locks—

“Please keep an eye on him at all times.”

—a deep bond has been formed between them.

They part ways, with Armin watching over his charge, and the courtesan walking over to the emperor’s quarters.

Eren gracefully walks down the halls, ignoring the stares of the guards passing by. He gives them a coy smile and a flutter of his eyes, purposefully slipping his robes past his bronzed shoulders, and they become enamored of him. Eren tries hard not to feel despair at the sound of the emperor keening his life out as the whines of a man grow louder by the second.

He breathes deeply, composes himself as the laughs from the lustful man grow heavier. He adjusts his robes—his favorite one with the emerald hue that matches his eyes—and quietly passes by the doors leading to the open doors of the emperor’s quarters.

The sight that greets him is nothing out of the ordinary.

Blank, aquamarine eyes look sadly at the heaving emperor draped over the plush duvet, those lithe arms hanging limply on his sides, letting out a breathy laugh as he watches a man and a woman lazily dance on top of him, their drunken bodies swaying languidly—and the emperor, as crass and as crude as ever, leans his head back, curls his thin lips into a relaxed smirk, and slowly runs his tongue across his teeth. He lets out a wistful sigh as he loosely holds his dripping cock, tapping it roughly on a man that has opened his mouth for him.

Eren sighs loudly enough for one of the courtesans to hear. He catches the eye of one of the female courtesans in the room, and he sees her lean over to the emperor, never leaving her eyes off the tanned male.

He sees the emperor hum and blink, mouths something to the woman—and silver eyes dart over to the doors, only to see no one there.

“No one is there,” the emperor mutters to the woman, and the woman, draped on Levi in all her almost-naked glory, daintily covers her mouth and titters a giggle.

“Oh, but Your Highness, you haven’t seen your precious little tiger right now,” she coos, her voice light and full of mischief. “He was just standing there like the poor soul that he is, haha! Oh, Your Highness, if only you could see his face—like he wanted to cry and have a taste of you, sir.”

Another courtesan, a male one, overhears the conversation and joins in with the woman. He chuckles and breathes to the emperor’s ears, “Can you not see, my lord? The paramour hall is having a heavy heart, Your Highness.”

The emperor hums and lets out a throaty groan in question, looking at the man with a bored stare as he sighs. “Why is that?”

The woman, who’s by now straddling the emperor, coyly smiles at him, “You decided, on a whim, to keep a tiger in a cage, a very beautiful and untamed animal, just to make him your own—yet you have never laid down with him, nor have you touched him with the very hands you use to touch us.”

“We are here to satisfy the emperor,” says one man languidly crawling up to the ruler, “and we have seen more than enough of him trying to satisfy you. But you never glance at him when he is here. You haven’t seen the tear he just shed.” A finger snakes down on the emperor’s lips, and the man sighs on them. “A courtesan is not made to cry in sadness to his men.”

“And he breaks all the rules,” says one woman hovering on the emperor’s face, her hair tickling his cheeks. “Yet we see him striding down the halls, owning everything we cannot own. You give him everything—yet you don’t give him your body,” she smiles, the edges of her lips not reaching her ears as she caresses his face. “Your Highness, you are a very, very cruel man.”

The emperor’s eyebrow lifts, his lips now set in its typical frown. “Why am I cruel?”

One male courtesan laughs, and runs his hand on the emperor’s leg, “He desires you, Your Highness. But you don’t desire him.”

“Or are we wrong?” one woman asks, idly making circles on the ruler’s palm with dainty fingertips. “Do you really desire him, that tiger that captivated you with his beauty?”

The emperor doesn’t speak.

He desires him. He really does.

“What stops you from wanting to do to him what you have been doing with us?”

“Do you really desire him? Or is he just one of your many dolls?”

“Is he a special doll? Is that why you keep him in a glass?”

“Or do you want to take him as someone to rule with you as well?”

The room goes silent, the female courtesan’s words hanging heavily in the air as all eyes fall on the quiet emperor.

The emperor does not utter a reply.

“He will leave the palace tonight, you know,” says the man lying on his chest. “He will leave the palace, leave you, and find someone who will satisfy his needs—”

“He cannot run from me, nor can he find someone who will give him satisfaction.” His words are a low growl, fists clenching. “This is my country, and no one escapes from me.”

The courtesans silently look at each other, then at those hardened silver eyes.

“He will return to me.”

“Ah, but will he really?” says a female courtesan. And she smiles at the emperor’s wide eyes—

“He cannot wait forever, you see.”

* * *

It is the dead of the night. A sultry-eyed Eren peregrinates and paints the streets of the Eagle country in a striking shade of red.

Eyes of both men and women caress his sun-kissed skin as he walks by, giving them a coy smile and a fleeting, sidelong glance. A gentle sway of his hips, a fine flick of his finger against an auburn lock, the hypnotizing veer of his body as he traipses—all that he is is captivating, catching everyone’s attention with his mere presence alone.

Eren hums a song despite some of the looks being sent his way are of disapproval. Albeit feeling humiliated at the palace in more ways than one, he mustn’t let it show.

The men and women in the palace are only the emperor’s toys, and Eren refuses to be treated as such—especially now that he has been cast away. Oh, he will return, yes, but not in the next few days. A few days of rest from the cage he was in is just what he currently needs.

The most beautiful flower blooms the greatest in the wild; should the world be vile to you, let these words be your hope—those are Lady Petra’s words, the ever kind and motherly Lady Petra. In the short amount of time he has spent in the palace, she has become his stronghold when everything falls out of place, and he always takes her words to heart.

He just hopes she is well in the palace with the other courtesans.

He sighs, and sees an old lady selling trinkets.

“Mama,” a child exclaims as she tugs on her mother’s sleeve, and points to where Eren buys a bauble, “I want to be pretty like her!”

“Hush, child,” the mother whispers with a smile and a little laugh, “he is from the palace where the emperor resides.”

“She’s a man?”

“He’s a man, yes.”

“But why is he wearing girl’s clothes?”

The courtesan, who cannot help but overhear everything as he buys a jade bracelet, turns to the little girl and smiles. He kneels in front of her and caresses her hair and turns to the mother with the same warm smile. “I am an odalisque—of sorts—to the emperor, little one. I do what the emperor requires of me.”

The little girl cocks her head, her eyes wide as she stutters out his words, “‘An oda-lisk’?”

Eren chuckles, and pats the girl’s head, “A person who gives the emperor his needs, little one.”

And just like that, the mother bows to Eren and lets out a laugh that feigns actual laughter—“Please do excuse my child, she is rather very curious about the things around her,” and she pats her daughter’s head, and the little girl, oblivious to it all, merely smiles and bows. He cannot blame the mother, though—his trade isn’t really something to brag about.

“It’s all right, madam, an inquisitive child is a bright child,” and he rummages inside his sleeve pocket, takes out the jade bracelet he has just bought, and puts it in the little girl’s pudgy hands. “This is for you, little one. A gift for being a bright girl. Wear it when you are older—it is a charm, for you to be the most beautiful girl in all of the land.”

He watches the girl’s eyes widen, and she looks at her smiling mother with a wide grin. The mother and child thank Eren as they walk away, and the little girl pipes up as she waves the jade bracelet in the air, “This is beautiful, Mister!” and the courtesan waves back, and goes on his way.

He wishes for the girl not to grow up and end up like him—a sad and tattered and forsaken doll.

He makes his way to his former home, where a small but roomy house is built. It has been Eren’s only personal request to the emperor when he started as a trainee—the house serves him as a refuge of sorts.

Eren looks at the guard that has been stationed there since the house was built.

“Hello, Jean,” Eren greets with a small smile, “life been treating you well lately, I hope?”

The guard, who has saluted him the moment he meets his teal-eyed stare, scratches his cheek and looks away bashfully as he speaks. “Um, everything’s fine, Mistress.”

“I am not a mistress when I am out of the palace, dear Jean.” The courtesan’s words come out clipped and cold, something that Jean has noticed immediately. And the guard stutters out a coherent reply, but failing miserably. Eren simply huffs and smiles apologetically for being ‘rude and inconsiderate’, letting the matter slide before his temper explodes.

He enters his humble abode, and smiles at the cozy space. It is a house that has everything a person needs—a kitchen filled with food, a bathroom, a decent space where he could receive guests—

He walks over to the bedroom, where a velvet-laden divan big enough for two people to squeeze in lies.

Eren smirks.

“Time for payback, Little Emperor.”

* * *

Eren laughs and utters sweet words to the shell of a nameless man’s ear. Hands latch freely onto the courtesan’s robe, toying it lightly with grubby fingers. Eren winces at the sight of the dirt, having been used to getting all his surroundings clean in the palace—he says nothing, nonetheless.

This continues on for the next four days, with Eren meeting client after client, noble after noble, in his little abode. He services all of them, until one day, a man reeking of alcohol enters the House of Tiger—as what the house has been dubbed.

“Is the mistress of the house here?” he announces loudly enough for some of the patrons to hear.

“I’m here,” Eren says, and emerges from behind a satin-laced doorway wearing only two layers of robes—a white undergarment, and a fuchsia outer garment made of gossamer silk, both hanging too low on his bronzed shoulders. His bare feet patter lightly on the wooden floor, and all eyes fall on him and his gracefulness.

The drunkard of a man gulps down a bottle of liqueur as he stares at Eren’s elegance.

Soft, teal eyes look up at him, and he gives the man a coy smile. “Welcome to the House of Tiger, nobleman. How may I service you?” At this, several of the men in the room look at the old man reeking of alcohol, their hardened stares silently daring him to let out his request.

Eren may be considered a courtesan, a high-class prostitute of the noblemen by many, but his power shows how much he has all of them wrapped around his finger—and these noblemen are much too willing to go at each other’s throats, even going as far as to kill each other, should they see the Emperor’s Jewel being debased against the courtesan’s wishes.

It has happened before, too many times to count during his time in the palace, and Eren, as smug as he is, has been oddly amused of the violence of it all—like an imp sneering from the safety of his throne.

A nobleman sitting not far from the drunken man silently takes out a dagger hidden beneath his clothes, and he watches the drunkard gulp down the last of his wine and inches his face close to Eren, and whispers out words low enough for only him to hear.

“I wish to have a private audience with you, Tiger of the North.”

Eren’s eyes widen, his shoulders stiffen, and for a moment, he feels the air around him go tense.

Beryl eyes stare hard at the drunken man, and notes his appearance.

He is a tall, bald man, with skin that has shown too many years of living in the world. He has golden eyes that are waned by the cruel passage of time, and a notable mustache.

Eren’s smiling face shifts into one of mild surprise.

Eren and his family know of him very well, having done numerous trades with him in the past.

Ah.

The courtesan chuckles, and he bows to the odd man.

“I haven’t been called by that for so long, good sir,” he says in a playful tone. “Please, this lowly courtesan is not worthy of that title anymore. I have changed.”

“And yet you haven’t changed,” says the man, barking out a laugh as he pats Eren’s head. And Eren laughs as well, silent and refined.

Aquamarine eyes softly turn to one of the noblemen, “He is safe, do not worry.”

And just like that, the nobleman nods and puts his dagger away.

The drunken man’s laugh then booms in the air, “I see you have created a large following! Your charms seem to know no bounds, I see.” He nods silently as he looks at the interiors of the house, humming every now and then as he glances at some of the patrons, and he sighs and smiles proudly at the boy-turned-courtesan, he notes his striking appearance, and a lamentable tone leaves his lips. “You have gone through many hells, my child.”

A sad smile flutters on Eren’s lips for the briefest of seconds, and he whispers a reply, more so to himself than to the man, “Yes, I have.” He looks at the patrons, and he graces all of them with a forced smile. “I apologize for causing you distress, my customers—”

And the patrons laugh, and they wave his apology off, saying it is no problem—and Eren takes their words to heart. He bows to them, and to the man. He looks at him with pleased eyes, and he hums.

“Shall we talk more comfortably inside, good sir?”

* * *

It is loud and lively in the House of Tiger, the atmosphere whooping and boisterous, and a man decked in a simple, blue banyan, curious of it all, peeks in through the door, and is stopped by none other than a frowning Jean.

“Are you here for the Tigress?” the guard huffs out and stares coldly at the man, who is a few inches taller than him. The man merely frowns and blinks slowly at Jean.

“The Tigress?”

Jean scratches his head, confused at the man’s obvious unawareness, “The Tigress, the owner of this house. He’s the only courtesan here, and he services all of them. Would you like to enter?” He moves away from the door and lowers his spear, “Just be nice to him and all will be fine. If not, then you will answer to _him_.”

The man blinks, his lips set into a thin line, “‘Him’?”

The guard tilts his chin upward, his expression grim as he whispers, “The emperor of Eagle.”

The man’s eyes go wide, and he takes another glance through the doors, “Does he always have this many clients?”

“Of course,” the guard huffs, rather proudly, “he is the best courtesan of the land. It’s why the emperor treasures him so much.” And at a moment’s slip, the guard mutters to himself and looks away, “Only, the emperor makes him feel like nothing recently.” He then glances at the silent man, “Have you heard of the Emperor’s Jewel? That’s him,” he jerks his thumb at the general direction where Eren smiles and dances the night away in front of the noblemen. “He’s entertaining all of them in more ways than singing and dancing, not an easy job for him, I reckon, especially the favors they keep throwing at him. It’s not his fault the noblemen’s wives at home cannot keep their husbands standing up in attention. Those men all go to him when night comes, and it keeps him busy—at least until he returns to the palace.”

The man hums, keeps his eyes on the dancing man decked in flowing robes, “I see.” He turns, and he hears the guard calling him over.

“Are you not going to go inside and check him out?” Jean curiously asks.

The man smiles, and shakes his head lightly, “I cannot lay eyes on what the emperor deems as his, but thank you for the information.” And he leaves, making Jean scratch his head and wonder out loud.

“Strange man, he is.”

* * *

Armin hums as he cleans Eren’s room. It has been three days since he left, and by the looks of things, he won’t be back for the next two days or so.

He exits the room to eat, and he passes by two guards talking amongst themselves.

“—says it’s an urgent matter, don’t know what it is, though. Hey, have you been to the House of Tiger recently? It now has a slew of customers since its opening night last week—he’s a good one, too. Knows how to take it in the mouth and behind.”

“I cannot go there, my wife would—”

“Your wife will know nothing about if. If she does, just bring her to her knees and give her a good scolding for suspecting you. Haha!”

Armin looks at them, and realizes that they are talking about Eren. He frowns, not liking the way they view his friend. Eren is a human being, yet he is being treated like an animal.

He turns at the corner, lost in his own thoughts, when he bumps into something quite hard.

Armin hears a grunt, and stumbles back, but is steadied by a pair of strong arms.

“Are you all right?” comes the deep voice, and Armin reflexively nods his head and soothes his scalp.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” the helper says, and winces as he looks up at warm, blue eyes.

Armin feels his face grow hot at the sight of the familiar face.

“G-General! I-I’m sorry I’ll be leaving sorry for bumping into you—” He quickly turns to leave with a muffled squeal, only to be stopped by the strong arms that are now making Armin’s body go ablaze.

“Hey, hey. Easy there, I’m not going to hurt you,” the general laughs, and his hold on Armin tightens out of reflex.

Armin stops struggling, and glances at mirthful, blue eyes—he feels his heart stop.

“I’m sorry for bumping into you, General,” Armin stammers, a bit louder this time, and the general chuckles at the boy as he pats him on the head.

“It’s nothing to fret about,” he smiles, observing the younger male with mild interest. “Say, have we met before?”

And at those words, Armin feels his heart shatter into a sea of melancholy—yet he says nothing about the pain swiftly blooming inside his wrecked soul, and chooses to force a smile instead as he shakes his head.

“No. No, we haven’t met.”

It is the biggest lie Armin has ever uttered.

And the general blinks and studies the boy with sharp, azure orbs; he accepts the shuddering lies with a smile that reaches his ears. “Is that so,” he whispers, his brows furrowing at Armin’s suddenly sad-looking eyes.

Armin nods, as though reassuring him that he and the general have never met, “Surely if we have met before, you would remember me, General.” He says it with conviction and strength not present in his voice before, and it is enough to make the general guffaw.

“You’re right, you’re right. Surely, someone as confident as you would be remembered by anyone, me included,” and General Erwin’s eyes flutter close at the cold wind.

Armin commits the sight to memory.

The general lets out a stifled sigh, and feels the conversation coming to an inevitable end, “Well, bright one, it has been nice meeting you. Good day. Try not to bump into anything next time!” He jokes, and he pats Armin on the head once more. He steps away from him, and wordlessly leaves.

Armin’s eyes, so full of longing and regret, holds in his breath and chases after the man’s retreating form, feeling his heart grow sad and heavy with each step the general makes.

It is long before he notices he is gone, and when he does, an odd calm washes over him, and the wave of tears start to flow. He tries to hold them back, covers his mouth as he stifles a sob, only to end in vain.

“He didn’t even remember me—me that he had saved from slavery,” he whispers lamentably to the bitter cold wind. “I am a fool,” he clutches onto his chest, and feels the twangs of his heartstrings twist and pull in a never-ending agony, “still nothing but a fool…!”

And the words he has told himself and Eren time and again echo a heavyhearted carillon in his ears.

His body, burdened by feelings both familiar and foreign to him, gives way as his knees buckle on the floor, and he buries his head in his trembling hands.

“Oh, Eren. I never should have fallen in love…!”

* * *

Erwin enters the throne room of the emperor with authority, and all the guards salute him as he faces the man sprawled on the lavish throne.

“Your Highness,” the general drawls lowly as he eyes the ever-indecent sight of the ruler displaying almost all of his body, and he remembers a familiar sight he has seen not long ago—that of tanned legs and the comely physique of a certain young man. He pushes the thought away, and clears his throat. “I have news regarding the disappearance of one of your courtesans.” He watches the expression of the emperor shift into that of feigned annoyance. Erwin ignores it, and he continues, “I think Your Highness is the reason why he fled from the palace in the first place.”

The emperor hisses and glares at the stoic general. “What do you mean I’m the reason? Are you telling me I neglected him?”

The general looks at him smugly, mocking at the anger clearly on the emperor’s face. “That is precisely what I’m saying. You purposely took him in and turned him into your slave, and then what? You abandoned the poor thing. Eren—that is his name, is it not?”

The emperor’s eyes turn into slits, his teeth gnashing at the utter insolence from the man. A roar rips through his throat as he stands, “It is for his safety—!”

“So much that he needs to be a quean of yours?”

The emperor’s words go silent at the general’s question.

“He is currently selling himself with no rest to the nobles—trying to give them the pleasure that he cannot receive from the Eagle ruler.”

There is a pregnant pause, a stifling quiet in the air, a heart racing at the utterance.

Bare feet clumsily walk over to the unmoving general, unfazed at the question that screams from the emperor’s lips.

“Where is this place?”

* * *

A horse gallops noisily in the Eagle country, the unsteady puffs of breath come out shallow in the still of the night.

Silver eyes heavy with fatigue pay no heed as the emperor snaps the reins on his horse, leaving no stone unturned as he scourges the area of Eagle country.

He cares not for his appearance, wearing only a conical hat and two, thin layers of garments that reach past his ankles. A pair of black loafers covers his chilly feet in the dead of the night. Really—

“What on earth is he thinking?” Erwin follows hotly on his heels, blue eyes trained on the seething form of the usually impassive emperor—never has the general seen the smaller man like this, all puffed up and livid, all this over a courtesan that the emperor himself has cast away.

The emperor turns to a corner on the left, and Erwin follows suit.

The House of Tiger comes into view.

The emperor stops his horse and hurriedly gets off of it, burning holes straight at Jean’s shocked face—

“Your Highness, please wait,” Erwin hisses in his ear and grabs his shoulder, his hold firm and strong, “don’t just barge in there—”

“And why not?” he yells over the disturbing noise erupting in the House of Tiger, his tone like that of a peevish child denied of a treat. “He is my property!”

Jean, who has saluted immediately after seeing the emperor, stands still, not wanting to be the scapegoat of it all—

“You there. How many clients does he have tonight.”

Jean gulps. “H-he exceeds the number of his usual tonight, sir.”

“How many.”

Jean glances at the shorter male, and looks away at the piercing glare, “Exactly a dozen, Your Highness.”

The general stands behind the emperor, and snorts behind his hand as he stage whispers, “Exactly the number of people you bed every day.”

The emperor shoots him a glare, but utters nothing, nonetheless. General Erwin shrugs, the smug look on his face still evident.

“He is rather good in playing games with you, isn’t he?”

The emperor growls and turns his eyes to the brothel that Eren has made for himself, and his anger fuels—

—he reaches his hand to the door, and Jean blocks his way.

“Move, soldier,” the ruler growls out, yet Jean merely gulps and shakes his head.

“A-as much as I despise him sir, I cannot disobey him Your Highness. The mistress specifically told me not to—”

The emperor roughly pushes him out of the way and slams the door open.

The sight that greets him is familiar, too familiar, yet at the same time it is not. It is strange, otherworldly, surreal, debauched—

—and the emperor cannot look away.

“…Eren?”

A young man lies on a plush divan, all red and flushed and almost naked as he thrusts and holds aloft the hips of an equally flushed and whining and barely clothed courtesan, who is surrounded by eleven other men, all of the worshipping the tanned male’s body in one way and another.

No patron notices the forceful entry of the shell-shocked emperor standing on the doorway; no one, except for the courtesan panting and blissfully smiling the pain away.

Hazy, teal eyes meet wide, argent ones, and the curl on Eren’s lips sings an airy sigh.

“ _Get out of my heaven, Little Emperor._ ”

* * *

_Turned him into his very own courtesan_

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all the readers (and the future readers) who are reading this fic! Seriously, it makes me happy and turns my crappy days into rays of sunshine.

* * *

_At the fear of being asked for liberty_

* * *

 The banquet in the palace of Eagle land is in full swing. Laughter, food, and liquor flow freely like the water on the tables—

—and the emperor despises it all.

He eyes all the dancers dancing in front of the officials, with their broad smiles and colorful dresses and elegant and captivating moves—the emperor muses that he should be having fun.

But _no_.

Gray eyes rake over to one of the dancers, to the one who is in the center of it all.

Eren smiles and twirls in the middle of the circle of dancers, arms outstretched and swaying about as his legs bend gracefully in the air. He is out of his usual garb of robes; instead, he wears a maroon, gypsy wrap top around his torso, along with a matching pair of harem pants that have long, wide slits at the sides, giving anyone an eyeful of long, tanned legs.

Mesmerized by it all, Levi’s stare hardens, and he drinks in the intoxicating existence that is Eren—his slave, his courtesan, his _everything_.

It has been a week since he has seen Eren take in every single client that came to the House of Tiger. It has been a week since they have last spoken. It has been a week that he hasn’t taken in a single courtesan in his quarters. It has been a week since his mind has spiraled into turmoil and madness, his heart bearing a heavy weight at the mere mention of Eren’s name. It has been a week since he has made drinking a nightly habit, oftentimes drinking himself away as soon as he has dismissed his guards from the entrance of his room. It has been a week since the palace has been standing on its tiptoes, its eyes and ears alert on every move the high-strung emperor makes.

The sight of Eren servicing other men makes Emperor Levi’s blood boil—and he cannot shake the image of him in his searing mind.

“Levi?”

“Hm?” And the emperor looks away from the view, irritated at being interrupted. “What now, Erwin.”

The general scoffs at the growled out reply, his expression amused at the emperor’s scowling face. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were so absorbed in your musings that you failed to realize that I’ve been calling your name for five times already.”

“Shut up, Erwin. What do you want.”

Erwin heaves a sigh, and lazily looks at the courtesans’ dances, “What are you going to do with him?” He jerks his chin, to where Eren pirouettes in the middle of the circle of dancers—

“What are you talking about.”

“Tsk. Don’t be stubborn, Levi. I know you,” he leans in and whispers to the emperor’s ear. “What do you intend to do to his brothel?”

Without missing a beat, the emperor replies without a bat of an eyelash, “Let it be.”

Erwin looks at him incredulously, his curiosity piqued at the sudden apathy of the emperor’s dismissive shrug.

“He is free to do what he wants,” Levi hisses out. “He’ll snap out of his stubbornness soon enough.”

Erwin sees the emperor’s clenched fist on the table, all shaking and clammy with what he assumes as the ruler’s frustration in having his previously presumed complete control slipping right out of his hands.

The general secretly smiles to himself.

The dance ends, and the courtesans, the musicians, and the dancers bow and retreat.

Erwin sees the emperor’s eyes trail hotly on Eren’s smiling and retreating form.

“You are staring at him too much, Levi,” he whispers, and is not shocked at the sudden jolt from the smaller male.

“Shut up and drink yourself to death.”

“You too.”

The emperor hisses and glares at the general, and the blond merely shrugs.

“I mean, ‘stare yourself to death’, is how I should put it,” he laughs, “you won’t have him with that. You made a resounding blunder, Levi. You refused to touch him, and so he resorted to seeking the touch of others, something you couldn’t provide. I don’t see why you are so peeved about it. I actually admire his brashness in that—riling you up like there’s no tomorrow. His passion and audacity would bring many nations to his feet should he become a soldier in my army.” Erwin smirks as he side-glances at the emperor and his gritting teeth, “Plus, he could rile up the great, stoic Eagle with just a taste of his own medicine.” He slowly waves his hand in the air, looking at the distance, “‘The courtesan that drove an emperor to ruin’. It has a foreboding feel to it, don’t you think?”

The emperor growls at the smug look on Erwin’s face.

A servant girl approaches the scowling ruler, and she bows as she refills their empty cups with wine.

She is a reserved and becoming young woman, though clumsy and nervous, the emperor notes.

Erwin hums, and glances at the emperor’s suddenly heated stare.

The general lifts the cup of wine to his lips, never taking his eyes off him.

The emperor’s lips turn upwards, and silently beckons the trembling girl over with a slim finger.

She reluctantly obeys, and Erwin sees the emperor’s motive there and then. He huffs in his cup and softly whispers to himself, “There he is again.”

The emperor whispers something to the young woman, and she goes red in the face.

The young ruler of age 27 stands, glances at Erwin, smirks, and presses a finger to his lips.

He leaves, and from out of the corner of his eye, Erwin senses a piercing glare being sent to the leering emperor’s way.

Erwin sips on his wine with a small smile.

“‘Interesting’, indeed, Levi.”

* * *

It has felt too long.

Too long without someone to keep him company, to give him a temporary boost of warmth and a sense of ecstasy.

A week, for him, is too long.

The young woman keens and gasps in the emperor’s hold.

The emperor’s quarters is pitch dark, save for the sole candlelight illuminating the room.

The emperor’s clothes are in disarray, his robes loose and pooling at his shoulders. The servant girl, one now completely robbed of her innocence, pants and mewls in her nakedness as she tries to hold onto the sweating man above her.

He hisses as he gyrates his hips into her, and with an ardent cry of pleasure mixed with pain, he clamps his teeth to her neck, sucks the skin his tongue can reach, and gives it a languid lick.

He thrusts and pounds and rams, letting himself lose in the heat of the moment, all the while, his mind starts to drift far away, to a distant pair of startling beryl eyes, a boy all toned and bronzed and impulsive and all things that the emperor isn’t.

He grunts, and gives one deep and final push, making the woman coil her toes and arch her back.

He empties himself in her with an echo of a name that rarely leaves his lips, and he collapses on top of the sighing servant, and all is black.

It seems like hours before he returns from his high, and when he does, he is not surprised to see a familiar figure, a female, standing and crossing her arms as she leans by the sliding doors, her face holding somberness as she usually does whenever she catches him in his typical trysts.

He prepares himself for the impending lecture.

“The officials are looking all over for you, Your Highness. You’ve been out for an hour.”

He groans in the crook of the sleeping girl’s neck and lets out a groggy reply, “’s the feast over?” He hears a shuffle of cloth, a sigh, and a distinct tapping on the floor.

“Not yet, sir, but the general’s patience is wearing thin—”

The emperor grumbles.

“—and so is mine.”

The sound of joints popping and inaudible mutters resonate in the room as the pale and blanket-clad emperor languidly sits up with a lazy smile, long and spidery digits running through his mussed up hair as he looks at her with a devilish glint in his eye. “As cruel as ever, Petra,” he grumbles out.

She huffs and smiles all the same, shrugging as she rearranges her flowing robes of carnation-hued silk, “Not as cruel as you. You got another one again?” Her eyes dart over to where a peacefully sleeping girl lies beside him, and he offhandedly shrugs.

“She is not as good as you, though.”

She flips her tangerine locks and walks over to the sleeping servant, “Of course she isn’t. She is not trained to be like me.” Her brows eyes observe the slumbering form, “She is a part of the slaves in the kitchen hall. Levi, when did you see her?”

Levi shrugs, that little simper still adorning his face, “Earlier in the banquet. And don’t call me that when other people are here. Just because you are the head of the paramour hall doesn’t mean you have the privilege to call me that. I am the emperor, and I have no name.”

“Ah, but you never punish me in any way for my insolence since I served you in this palace. Also, you have a name—Levi. When you are in your room, you always throw all caution to the wind and revert to being just Levi, not the emperor of the Eagle land. Don’t forget that.”

Gray eyes drift to hazel ones, and he smirks and speaks softly, his voice filled with fondness at the memory of a young man, “You are just like him.”

Petra blinks, and a small smile creeps to her lips, and she giggles, her voice refined and light, “You mean Eren?” He nods, hesitant, and she grins, “He is my pride and joy. The greatest courtesan I have ever molded.” Her voice drips with evident dignity for the boy as she juts her hip, and Levi almost smiles as he resignedly shakes his head, truly amused of her. “It seems my teachings on the boy have finally come into fruition. He really riles you up like there’s no tomorrow.”

Levi looks at her, amusement still dancing in his eyes, “You are picking up habits from Erwin, it seems. That’s exactly what he said to me before.”

* * *

Eren grits his teeth as he watches the emperor leave with a woman of the slave class from the kitchen department. He stands there in a corner along with his fellow courtesans who are just as furiously jealous as he is as they watch the emperor making sly gestures at the unknown woman. It is surprisingly rare for the lust-laden ruler, as they know, to pick up a servant from another department apart from the royal palace and the paramour hall, and in the middle of a feast, nonetheless. The emperor definitely has something troubling his mind and—

“Eren.”

The courtesan turns, and sees Armin looking at him with his ever-present concern.

“I am fine,” the courtesan says, and Armin sighs, smiling at his charge knowingly.

“You are showing your horns.”

“I am not.”

Armin leaves it at that, and settles that Eren will eternally be as stubborn as the emperor himself. He leans in to whisper to the clearly sulking young man, blue eyes darting over to a corner, “There’s a man waiting for you just over there, and I don’t think he’s a client.”

Eren slowly turns to where Armin discreetly points, and teal eyes narrow at the sight of a familiar man. He then warily glances at his fellow courtesans, only to see them being too busy gawking at the servant walking beside the emperor in jealousy. He squeezes Armin’s hand, silently reassuring him that everything is just fine. With a tug on the robe that Armin has draped on his barely-clad torso, Eren quietly slips between the throng of onlookers and servants. He meets up with the mysterious man lurking behind a tree far from the banquet, and disappears behind the palace’s walls.

Armin’s eyes trail after his charge and his friend, and worry immediately washes over him.

“Please be safe, Eren.”

* * *

Teal eyes touch the intricate details of a dagger made of the finest gold, watches the blade glisten in the midday sun as it turns this way and that.

A hand wrinkled by time twirls the blade, and he lets it fall on Eren’s palms, letting the courtesan feel its heavy weight on his clammy and inexperienced hands.

And Eren is fascinated of it all.

“The handle is made out of ebony wood, isn’t it?” he asks, and the man nods, letting a small smile grace his face. “Good sir, do you really think I could do this? Why not send an assassin instead?”

The man that frequents the House of Tiger closes his eyes for a moment, and a calm smile settles upon him as he rubs his mustache, “I have one capable assassin in my hands, yes. But she can be very stubborn at times.” He glances at something from afar, and slips his sights back at wide, blinking eyes, and the man smirks. “But if it’s you, then I believe I have no problem. You are good with your hands, yes?”

Quickly catching on the indelicate meaning, Eren lopsidedly smiles and laughs, “Well, good sir, it depends on where you want it and how fast you want my hands to roam.”

The man’s eyes smile, and he nods slowly, “And this is why you are called the greatest courtesan of Eagle land. You show your happiest face in the teeth of danger. And I think you are the scariest of them all.”

Eren laughs dryly, and awkwardly rubs his shoulders as he looks away. He remembers the day he had met this strange, old man—compelling, eccentric, authoritative—

—and by all means, a man to be feared.

It had happened a few weeks back in the House of Tiger, back to when this man had appeared drunk and loud in announcing his presence—and to Eren, it had felt like an eternity.

Eren feels as though _he_ now has his whole life at stake by the hands of this man and—

The courtesan is roused as the man speaks, those eyes unyielding and sharp and golden like the blade in his tanned hand.

“Think of who your real emperor is, Little Tiger. Think of who your real ruler should be.”

Eren looks at the man, and his mind wanders to why he stands before him today. He remembers the times—that seem to drift further away from his conscious—when his life used to be light and so full of promise. The supposed greatest merchant of his time, the supposed future owner and distributor of Tiger land’s ores and diamonds—

He recalls how he has ended up in this tale of madness, recalls how he, in his moment of clouded judgment blinded by his thirst for revenge at the Eagle emperor, had clearly made an austere affirmative in accepting the man’s offer—

—to kill the emperor of Eagle country.

At the thought of it, Eren’s mind screams.

He loves him, but he hates him.

He wants to please him, but he wants to defy him.

He wants to give himself to him, but he wants to tear himself away from him.

He wants him to live, but he also wants him to die.

Eren’s hands start to shake at his conflicting thoughts, and he pants and sweats in nervousness.

He is returned to his senses by a pair of heavy hands squeezing his tense shoulders.

“That blade is laced with a deadly poison—enough to kill a dozen men if it makes contact with their blood. They will be dead before they know it.”

“Why am I the one to do this?” Eren’s tone is small, frightened, uncertain, and the man understands the fear well.

“Because you are his Jewel. His most prized possession. And he’ll never dare lay a hand against you.”

Eren bows his head, and tries to fight back the lump wrapping around his throat. Being in control, yet not being in control—he hates it. He hates it all. It is a heavy task, the most treasonous act he will be doing. He will be biting the hand that feeds him. He will be deceiving the man that he loves and hates.

He will be stained with blood, killing his life, and building a new one all the same. It has always been what he wanted from the start, has it not?

Even so, he musters up his courage, all to get what he wants—

—freedom from his life in this seemingly heavenly hell.

“How sure are you?” he asks, his voice a bit rougher than he has intended.

The man smiles, and pats Eren’s cheeks, “Because he looks at you like how a man in love would look at a woman. I can tell. At the banquet, the only one he has been eyeing on is only you. At your every move, he follows with his too-lingering stare. Every time you smile at the crowd, his lips part. When your dance ended, it is you his eyes chase.”

Eren’s face turns grim, “But then he sees another when I am away, and he openly refuses me.”

“Men are simple creatures, my child. You should know it. You are one. Then again, some of them are really hard to crack. He is one of those men that are hard to crack.”

And just like that, Eren’s world spirals as the man’s words echo in his ears once more—the words that have been uttered to him time and again since they have met:

“Remember your emperor.”

The man leaves and vanishes into the darkness.

No one hears the soft words that leaves Eren’s lips as soon as the man has left; no one, except for the cold wind that caresses him and his heavy heart torn between the fickle and troublesome thing called feelings.

“I don’t think I could do it after all, Your Majesty…”

His shoulders fall along with his lament, and he gulps as he looks at the heavy blade once more.

It shines in the glimmer of the sunlight, its sharpness and its golden hue a nice complement to the sun’s warm rays.

From behind an oak tree standing far away, is a blond woman dressed in black, observing the courtesan with sharp, gray eyes.

“Who will betray who, I wonder…”

The strange man from before comes up behind the black-clad woman, and he smiles as he looks at Eren’s contemplative form.

“The tale is now spun in the finest of silks,” he says, and he glances at the woman with mirth dancing in his golden eyes. “Time to weave the story to perfection, isn’t it?”

* * *

_He pushed the courtesan away so guiltily_

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone would like to ask why I have written this fic, I guess it’s all thanks to my recent liking of Vocaloid songs with stories. The songs, Daughter of Evil and The Madness of Duke Venomania are my main inspirations for this story. Along with a manga, Chang Ge Xing, and, of course, the Korean movie, Hwang Jin-Yi, ideas blossomed, and then this piece comes into writing. (=w=)

* * *

_The courtesan of Eagle then took notice and_

* * *

Silver eyes scan over the lavishness of the banquet, his throat getting more and more constricted as he tries to get a glimpse of a certain teal-eyed courtesan.

The festivity remains in full swing, he observes from afar. Hearty laughs fill up the air as songs and music from the musicians lift the palace in merriment. The emperor cares not for them all, and he grits his teeth in frustration.

“He is not here, if that is what you’re thinking.”

The emperor turns, and glares at the general standing right behind him, “Where is he.”

The blond shrugs, his expression nonchalant, “He has left to take care of certain things. A trip to his room to relieve himself, perhaps? That’s what his servant told me when I tried to summon Eren to the officials, anyway. ‘If the emperor cannot be with his lieges, then it is for the Emperor’s Jewel to take his place’. That is what you said before, am I right?” His tone is light, humorous, and the emperor finds it irritating.

“Don’t spit my words back to my throat.”

Erwin smirks. “You had fun back there, I assume? Seeing as you’re not as high-strung as earlier,” he observes, his words slithering to the emperor’s ears with a stinging bite.

The smaller man shrugs and looks away, tapping his forefinger on his hipbone as he purses his lips, “It was enough to keep me sated until night, at most.”

The general scoffs and wrinkles his nose, “I’ll never understand you and your wicked games. When will you ever get satisfied?”

“A rhetoric question, that is. You know I’ll never get satisfied—”

“How about Eren? Will he be able to satisfy you and your unquenchable thirst?”

The emperor’s eyes harden at the question. “Don’t ever talk of him like that.”

“Like what?”

The ruler clenches his jaw and grinds his teeth, his words clamping up in restraint, the whole fiber of his being trying not to yell at the general’s apparent insolence.

Erwin has been doing that to him a lot lately.

“What is it? Talk of him like what? Say it, Levi,” the general taunts, cocking his head as his eyebrows rise. Openly ruffling the ruler’s plush feathers has always been, and will always be, his favorite pastime.

The emperor’s breathing becomes shallower each passing second, his nostrils flaring as he stomps over to him and jabs a finger on Erwin’s armored chest. “Don’t—ever—mock me.”

“Ah, but you can mock others, is that it?” Erwin lets it slide for now, purposely turns a deaf ear to his avoidance of the question.

The emperor snarls.

“He has seen you earlier, you know. You and the stray you have brought to your quarters a few hours ago.” The general crosses his arms, looks at him like a parent disappointed at his child, “Why don’t you just settle matters with him so you can finally put an end to this madness you have created within yourself? The palace is watching your every move. Another war with another country is on the way—a country much larger than Tiger land is ahead.” Erwin angles his head at the emperor’s unwavering stance, staring him down with much equal force as he lowly growls, “And we cannot have the ruler of this country in a complete disarray all because of a lowly slave.”

“He is not a lowly slave.”

“But you turned him into one.”

The emperor falls silent, and the general sighs.

“Levi, why do you refuse to lay down with him?”

The emperor looks away and hisses, cursing the feel of his hammering heart as the words start to flow from him, “Because he deserves someone better than me.”

Blue eyes blink, and he watches the words of the man—so proud and ruthless and greedy and broken—surge from his small and trembling lips.

He is unsure, for once. The ruler of Eagle country is staggering in his current ways. Should an enemy see him of this, he will become the weakest target. Erwin watches as the emperor he holds dear falls apart right in front of his very eyes. And the blond holds in a bated breath as the pale man’s jaws clench and those small hands ball into tight fists.

He asks in a soft voice, “Why do you think so?”

The dam of unspoken words breaks, and the emperor—the broken man—has no power to stop his suppressed thoughts now dying to be let out.

“I gave him all that he could ever need. A place in the palace that replaces the home he has lost. Clothes more than enough to last him a lifetime. A loyal servant at his every beck and call. A lofty throne in my palace so he couldn’t be touched and looked down on. A house that I built outside the palace, in his hometown, for him to have peace in his heart should he feel the need to be alone. It is all for him. Anything just to make him stay with me. But I could never make him mine.”

Erwin closes his eyes and holds in a sigh—he has never been completely the type to give advice of the heart. He is a military man, a tactician, a soldier—a monster. The soldier of a country mirrors that of the country itself, strong, unyielding, unfeeling—yet here stands his emperor, all frail and trusting and softhearted, who pours out his whole heart to him with no ounce of self-regard to what people may think of him.

The emperor he sees now is merely a shadow of the man that had once been the cruelest of them all.

This small and pale man holds an entire country in his spidery palm, sitting atop of a lordly throne built from a wall of repressed emotions that are slowly crumbling each moment he speaks.

The general knows him well, it is better to let him talk now than not let him talk at all.

“Why can’t you?” Erwin mumbles, his tone sending a wave of calm over the emperor for the briefest of moments, and he observes the way the smaller man hugs himself, unsure and insecure at something that the general cannot comprehend.

“Because he is longing for freedom,” the emperor breathes out, the first words of his admission spilling like a shattering chain that he wants to be freed from. He glances at those blue eyes, and looks away at a distance, “If I make him mine completely, he will ask of these things. Ask things of the world and of liberty—he will ask them with no end. And I, in my moment of weakness for him, will someday have to inevitably come and listen to his pleas. I am afraid, Erwin. I am afraid that someday, in my want to give him all the happiness he could ever have, I might give him the strongest of desires that he wishes to obtain. That desire will make him happy, and that, will make me not. I cannot give him what he truly wants. I cannot get him close to me, to my heart—”

A shuddering sigh slips past the emperor’s lips as his shoulders quiver, and his voice cracks as he closes his eyes and lets a silent tear fall.

“—because I am completely enamored of him. I love him to no end.” He lets out a wry laugh that is completely resigned and humorless, his voice getting more hoarse as he stares at the loafers adorning his feet. “I would rather see this country burn into dust than give him his beloved freedom—because I am a selfish man, and I want him more than anything in this world.”

Erwin finally lets out the sigh he has been holding, and a small smile curls from his lips upon hearing his confession. He looks at him proudly, as he has always have since they first met, and even though the emperor standing now is seemingly fragile, one must never let their guard down—for Emperor Levi, behind his mask of greed and lust and sloth and all things sinful, lies a man capable of bringing any enemy down to his knees with a snap of his finger.

The general observes the way he heaves a woeful sigh, and at the sight of him furrowing his brows, Erwin is reminded just why he had given up everything to let this man be the emperor of Eagle land.

Erwin had once been a blacksmith, a proud and gallant one at that. He had lived with his wife, an equally strong and fearsome woman dreaded by many all because of her eccentricity, but the people loved them well all the same. Everything had been done in routine: create new swords and blades for the soldiers in the land, sell them to those who are willing and worthy to pay the price, and make new ones after that. He had been content in living that way, as long as he and his wife could get by, then all was fine.

But then a widespread tragedy had shaken the nation he once lived in—disputes over lands terrorized the powerless people, a kingdom from the far north had taken its hold on the staggering nation, and it slain more lives than he could count. He had sworn revenge over the injustice of it all.

And there came the time when he met someone that had turned Erwin’s morals into a sturdy foundation.

Erwin and his wife have been packing up that day, to finally get away from the madness of the country they were in—and a man, thinner and smaller than he, approached him, demanding to give him the strongest sword he had ever made.

He had laughed at the seemingly lunatic man, saying that the man was out of his mind, and the man, who Erwin had noticed was draped in a tattered clothing of cotton and covered in soot and blood, had yelled at him—“Die running away from your country, or die trying to defend it!”

Those words have shaken him to the very core, and before he could even fathom what he did, he had taken the lives of many of the soldiers trying to kill his fellow countrymen. He had killed them all with the help of his too-enthusiastic wife and the then scrawny man with eyes bearing the color of the sharpest, molten blades. They have gathered and created a slew of bandits and orphans and slaves over time, and turned them into rebel soldiers wanting vengeance for what they have lost—and they slaughtered countless of men bearing the insignia of the Stallion.

Swift had been their victory the day the man with steel eyes had taken the head of the ruler of the Stallion country. Roars and victorious cries of freedom have quaked the land, and soon after, the people that he and Erwin have gathered started to beseech a ruler for the overthrown kingdom. Sides have been taken in a matter of weeks as the people began to argue who would govern over the nameless country. Some have said it should be the once gentle man who turned into a fiend the moment he swings his sword in the air. Some have said it should be the loud woman standing by the fiend, manically piercing through every enemy with blazing eyes and a laugh that matches her insanity. Some have said it should be the man standing behind the fiend in the shadows, serving as the deadliest assassin the rebel army had known, who had danced and sung and heartlessly bathed his battles in blood with the ceaseless spinning of his blades.

The three brave rebels have talked in the palace that had once housed the ruler of Stallion, looking at the fields of people that grew more and more restless as time went by. They have thought of what the future held in the country they have taken over.

Mutual agreements have been made. The wife of the blacksmith had receded behind the two men, and decided to govern over the town where she and her husband had once lived. The two men, who had by then developed a mutual bond of trust thicker than blood, have agreed to split their duties—the fiend of a man became a general of the armies that led many nations into submission in a matter of months, and the man who had lurked in the shadows became the country’s ruler, a tyrant, who governed over everyone with an iron fist.

The country of Stallion then became to be known as the country of Eagle, a nation vying for justice and freedom—

—everything that the nation screamed to have.

The tyrannical ruler of Eagle had been dominating for eleven years, and counting. The then brash and gaunt 16-year-old had turned into a fine and fierce young warrior, slaughtering anything and everything that dared blocked his way in regaining the lost territories of his once-hometown. All the while, the merciless devil of a man stood by him at all times, protecting the ruler with all his might.

Nevertheless, a sliver of their almost-lost humanity shows and slips through at rare times.

Just like now.

“Would you be willing to die for the sake of this one man?” Erwin asks, and he is not surprised when the emperor nods weakly, as though he has finally reconciled with his tumultuous thoughts—and the general smiles in relief. “Good to know the real you is still in there behind the rotten heart you had developed.”

The emperor laughs, a real one, and he looks at Erwin with something akin to joy, something that the general has thought he would never see again.

“I am still here, hidden behind my heartlessness.”

They share a moment of mirth, something that they rarely do, and they return to the banquet with a comfortable silence.

Erwin’s eyes slide to the servant girl that the emperor has just sullied, and he fights back a frown.

Emperor Levi will have to deal with his unspeakable debauchery soon enough, not that he openly thinks of complaining about it.

The emperor scans the people as soon as he returns to his seat, and sees a robe-clad and smiling Eren crossing his arms. He laughs along with a flustered Armin, and the emperor sighs as he realizes that they are too far from him to hear their voices. He holds in a breath nonetheless, as Eren happily talks to his servant, and Levi nods to himself, smiling a small smile at what he sees.

* * *

Two weeks are long and gone, and the emperor is slowly reaching his limit.

He has been stalking the courtesan to no end for the past two weeks, slipping from his meetings with the officials and leaving everything to Erwin, and at one point, to Erwin’s wife—Hange, her name was—who had recently dropped by to visit her husband. There have been times when he ordered Erwin to secretly check on the courtesan, much to the general’s amusement; he follows his orders, nonetheless. But the emperor, still far too doubtful of Erwin’s reports, decides to take it upon himself to the task of keeping a close eye on Eren.

Today marks the sixteenth day he has stalked Eren, and the emperor is starting to grow weary upon being rejected over and over again whenever he wishes to have an audience with him.

He may be the emperor of Eagle land, but when it comes to Eren and his desire to get to know him, he realizes over time that what they have been going on about was nothing but their constant rounds of stalemate in the heat of their puffed up pride and arguments. One will not yield to the other—and it has become the palace’s most sought-after form of entertainment, going as far as to make the officials secretly take bets on who will crack first.

The emperor knows of this very well, but he does not mind. Eren also knows of it, but decides to avert his ears and eyes at the folly of it all.

“Is this what I’ve been doing to him all this time?” he wonders to himself as he discreetly hides and peeks behind a pillar, observing Eren chatting with his servant near a pond.

A pair of wide, blue eyes darts his way, and the emperor’s heart hammers in his chest as he quickly conceals himself. He waits for a few minutes, lets his hearing become sharper as he slyly peers behind the pillar once more.

And there, he sees, not a pair of teal eyes, but a pair of cerulean ones, blinking and staring straight at his face.

The emperor jerks away from the servant looking at him with innocence.

“Is there something the matter, Your Highness?” Armin pipes out, his hands placed behind his back as he tilts his head at the way the ruler clutches onto his bosom and heaves out—the very picture of a nervous wrack. “Are you spying on Eren again, Your Highness?” he asks bluntly, and the emperor, in his fit of surprise at having being discovered by a mere servant, instantly snarls at him.

“How did you know?” he growls out and narrows his eyes at the blond, quickly recovering as he steps over to a still blinking Armin.

“Well,” the servant starts, tapping his finger on his chin thoughtfully, “first off, your gaudy, maroon wardrobe is a huge clue. Plus, those two guards always follow you, Your Highness.” And he points to where the pair of guards stands not far away—and the emperor knocks his temple and lets out a frustrated sigh.

“I’m getting rusty in following people,” he comments to himself in a low voice, and the emperor slowly looks at those mirthful and knowing eyes. “Don’t tell him anything about this.”

“Oh, I won’t, Your Highness,” Armin says, his face contorted into an awkward slip of a mask of feigned ignorance as he holds back a laugh. The emperor’s jaw slackens, his silver eyes wide as Armin turns around and tries to stifle his snickers, but to no avail. A few steps away, the pair of guards following the emperor clamps their mouths shut in a futile attempt to stop the laughter bubbling from their lips.

The emperor scoffs, and a lopsided smile graces his usually stoic face. Normally, he would have had those who dare to cross him be put to death, but now—

He laughs, and it is the most relaxing thing he had ever done in a long while.

He hasn’t felt this free since he had taken the throne years ago.

“Your Highness, is there any reason why you are tailing him?” Armin smiles, a lilting edge teetering his voice as he playfully laughs and glances at an oblivious Eren. The servant strongly believes he knows why, but the need to hear it straight from the man himself is stronger.

“No particular reason,” the emperor says, blinking and looking away. Armin stifles a giggle, but says nothing of it.

“Well, if it really isn’t anything to be afraid of, I think it’s safe to say that I will be accompanying Eren to his house today. Those clients of his are becoming more demanding, you see.” He bows, “Good day, Your Highness,” and he turns around, letting the smallest of smirks paint his face as he goes away and returns to Eren, who has been unaware of everything the whole time. The courtesan has been picking oranges from a nearby tree in the short time that Armin was away, and the emperor muses just how oblivious the young man can be at times.

The courtesan and the servant walk away, leaving the emperor standing under the shade of a pillar with the pair of bumbling guards.

“Silence,” he orders, and the guards hastily obey.

* * *

The emperor continuously seeks favor in Eren’s eyes, tailing him more openly, even going as far as to try and go to the House of Tiger himself just to spare a glance at the dancing courtesan smiling away in front of men who only know of him from the deeds that he does in the privacy of his brothel.

Eren, by now, has finally noticed the odd behavior of the emperor, but takes no notice of it all the same.

“Let him suffer just as how I have suffered,” he once said to Armin.

So Eren does it like that. He has even informed Jean that a man who frequents the House of Tiger wearing a blue smock-frock must only be observing from the outside, never to be allowed to enter.

“Um, Your Highness,” Jean hesitantly stammers as he looks at the wrinkled brows on the disguised emperor’s face, “why have you been observing him too much lately?”

The emperor does not hide his bubbling rage, and he hisses at the guard, “If you know your place, soldier, you better not blab that horse mouth of yours. Also, don’t call me by my title when I am out of the palace.”

Jean whimpers and looks away, his whole frame quivering at the glare being sent his way.

Levi fixes his stares back at the still smiling and dancing Eren, and imprints in his mind the image of the graceful courtesan, void of his usual anger and hate that are always directed towards him.

Levi feels remorse, and so he decides to resort to one last tactic.

* * *

“A summons to his quarters?”

Armin nods, “A servant of his told me to tell it to you. Says it is urgent.”

Eren looks at him, skeptical about the strange request, “I have rejected him just as he had rejected me. What makes this one so important?”

Armin shrugs and offers him a reassuring smile, “It couldn’t be that bad, Eren. Maybe he’s finally seeing all the efforts you have done to make him notice you—”

“Well, he had his chance. It’s all water under the bridge now.”

A voice speaks out from outside his room, a call for a summons for one Eren.

Teal eyes meet blue, and they slowly nod—a resigned sigh escapes their lips, and Eren is gone after being bidden a quiet good luck.

* * *

The air is cold in the space that houses the emperor’s quarters, and that is, so far, the strangest thing that the teal-eyed courtesan has ever experienced in his many times of being there.

His steps are quiet, as they have always been, and he darts his eyes towards the four guards that are on duty tonight. He takes no notice of their stares, nor at the way they lick their lips upon seeing an indecent amount of shoulders and back.

The shade of maroon brings out the liveliness of his sun-kissed skin, and he does all he can to flaunt it. A fluttering bat of eyelashes here, a flash of a coy smile there, and he has every man swooning at his feet—it is a power that he has learned to use and abuse in the times of him being a plaything for all men.

He nears the quarters of the tyrant ruler, and tries to make any sound of the usual cacophony of shameful noises that never fails to make his ears go red—he hears none, and Eren stops in his tracks, cocks his head, and assumes the emperor is not in for the night. For a good measure, he goes back to the hallways to where the guards are still hanging on to his every step and sway and asks them if the emperor is asleep.

“He is waiting for you inside, Mistress,” says one guard breathlessly, who cannot help but rake his eyes all over his glowing form. A gulp from another guard is heard, trying hard not to look away at the smooth and round shoulders and the tantalizing collarbones that the courtesan possesses. And Eren crosses his arms, looks at them skeptically, and shrugs as he turns around and mutters something inaudible to himself.

He marches back to the familiar halls, and glares at the sliding doors, as though he is offended at the mere sight of it. Something is lacking, and the absence of the familiar sounds of pleasure from the room sets Eren on edge—as to why, he doesn’t know.

He waits not for an announcement of his arrival, and he simply slides the doors open and enters inside with an air of grace. And there, he sees the emperor on the plush duvet, all sprawled and somber and beautiful and ethereal—it seems just like any other day when Eren drops by for his (always rejected) visits. Only—

“Why are you adamant on making me go here?” he bluntly grits out.

The emperor smiles, and his slim fingers slide to a little table, where the usual glass of wine sits, all for his consumption.

As much as Eren hates to admit it, he forces himself not to be affected by the way the ruler languidly drinks his wine. He tries not to gulp as the liquid glides down that slender and bobbing throat. Eren closes his eyes, and denies that has just burned the image of the emperor in his mind. He denies that he has just seen an inappropriate amount of alabaster skin—that pale chest illuminated in the soft candlelight, and that thrumming, white flesh that is simply—

“Like what you see?”

Eren jolts and yelps at the sudden intrusion by a pair of glinting silver eyes hovering too close on his face.

“Wh-what?” he stammers out, cursing himself for letting his guard down. His teal eyes are wide in surprise, his body tenses as he accidentally takes in the scent of the barely-clad emperor—a gentle whiff of the night jasmine and gardenia. Eren blinks. “You have a very feminine scent there,” he blurts out, and the emperor merely shrugs and leans back, and takes no offense at the comment.

“It is a lovely scent, though,” he smiles, and regards the courtesan with approving eyes. “Is that plumeria I smell on you?” And he gives him a cheeky grin, eyes dancing with mirth as he chuckles and watches him go red.

Eren looks away, and is sheepish in his reply. “L-look, I just like the smell, all right,” he weakly explains, and the emperor laughs, “What is so funny?”

The emperor clutches his sides as he belly laughs—

—it is a sound that sings music to Eren’s ears. It is a sight that paints a thousand pictures in his mind.

He doesn’t realize it when the emperor had gotten close enough for him to see the little patches of red adorning his pale face.

“How long have you been drinking?” he mindlessly lets out.

“Ah. You are concerned for my well-being, yes?” he jokes, and leans even closer to his face just to rile him up. The courtesan scoffs, as though disgusted, Eren snarls at the still smiling man.

“Keep dreaming, old man.”

The emperor blinks, his lips curling into a little pout as he narrows his eyes, “I am not old.”

Eren crosses his arms and snorts, and sticks his nose up high, “Yes you are. You are like an old man, always walking sluggishly around the castle, especially when you are out of your room. Like this—” And he mimics the way the emperor walks, with shoulders slouching heavily, his brows furrowing, along with the permanent frown of his lips as his feet lazily patters on the floor. All the while, the emperor observes him with the smallest curl of a smirk hidden by his palm.

“How’s that?” And Eren finally turns to him with a grin that falls flat the moment he sees that familiar smirk.

“So you _have_ been observing me—observing me close enough to know the way I walk?”

Eren backs away and gulps, “Why would I even—look, I just heard of it from the others, all right—”

“Which others?” the emperor interrupts, standing on his tiptoes as he cocks his head and leans closer to Eren with the same lazy smirk. “Tell me. Tell me so I can punish them for talking about me in such a disrespectful manner.”

Eren gulps and stammers incomprehensibly, and his mind tries to come up with anyone who might fit the description, only to end up with none. He looks away and grumbles out, “There is no one.”

“Ah, are you trying to defend this person, then? Because trust me, I will find out soon enough.” The emperor turns around, huffing, and is stopped by a surprisingly strong hand clutching his wrist. Silver eyes drift to that tanned hand, and he raises an eyebrow.

“There is no one,” Eren sternly repeats, and the emperor frowns.

“Were you lying to me, then?”

Eren looks away, and lets go of the ruler’s wrist, “I just want you to look at me, is that really bad?”

The emperor chuckles and shakes his head, “Not really—though this side of yours, this—” he gestures to him with a lopsided smile, “—adorable side of yours—it’s charming, really.”

Eren blanches, his mouth gapes, and his eyes go wide, “I-I’m not—”

The emperor flutters his eyes close, and smiles. “I miss this,” he says softly, “how long has it been since I last talked to you like this?”

And just like that, the expression on his face shifts. The color on his cheeks returns, and a sneer crosses his lips the moment he speaks, “Three months? Four? I don’t know, I’ve lost count.”

The dismissive tone in Eren’s voice, the sudden blankness on the younger male’s face, seeing him like this is more than enough to make the emperor wince and look away, “I apologize, then.”

“Hmph. Return to your lovers, then. Since you desire them so much. Or have you found another one in your collection? That poor servant girl does not deserve to have her innocence taken by a wretched and greedy man.” The emperor doesn’t reply, and Eren continues, “Why do you refuse to touch me?”

“Because I want you.”

Eren laughs through his nose—unbelieving, “What? You mean to tell me you love me, is that it? That’s hogwash.”

The emperor sighs, and his shoulders slouch, “I—cannot say I love you— _yet_ , but I know that I want you. That’s why I cannot touch you.”

“What do you mean?”

The emperor gulps, and Eren sees those pale hands starting to shake, those jittery fingers aimlessly raking through the mess of ebony locks, and a shuddering sigh escapes his thin lips. “I want you, Eren. I want you enough that it drove me crazy when I heard about you turning the house I made for you into a brothel. I went crazy when I saw you in that place surrounded by filthy men. I wanted to stop you—”

“Then why didn’t you.”

“Because I am a foolish man,” he says, gritting his teeth at the pain of it all. The emperor bites his lip in an attempt to stifle his words, but Eren, already at his limit, chokes out—

“Tell me.”

“Because you want to get back at me, all right?” he exclaims, beating his chest with his fist as he finally lets loose the impenetrable wall that is his feelings. “I have let you do that to me because I thought that that would make you satisfied—! Satisfied for leaving a bitter aftertaste in my mouth after you saw me standing there stupidly in front of your—your _clients!_ ”

“And you are blaming me for this because…? Isn’t this what you want? You turned me into a courtesan so I could service people, right, _Your Highness_?”

“That isn’t what I want—”

“Then why turn me into a courtesan and not touch me at all?”

The emperor’s words are small as he speaks, the sound an airy tune from his petal lips, “—I don’t want the courtesans to touch you, and I don’t want to touch you with the hands that have touched theirs. I am a broken man, Eren. I can destroy people with my words and actions alone. I can do it to anyone, even to you—because I am a ruthless person.”

He gauges Eren’s reaction, and he almost takes a morbid satisfaction in seeing those beryl eyes harden. He pauses, and when he speaks once more, gone is his previous weakness, and he utters with determination, “Are you afraid of me now, now that you know who I really am? Knowing what things I am capable of doing?”

Eren says nothing, and the emperor almost scoffs at the lack of response.

“If you can’t even keep up with me and my words, then you are better off alone, _child._ ”

The courtesan ignores the apparent insult, and he crosses his arms and huffs, “And if I can keep up with you?”

Eren’s biting words echo through the emperor’s ears, and the sound of a hidden promise behind his voice brings a smile to his lips. “Then I shall make you my own. I shall not bring another man or woman in my arms anymore. It will be only you that I will touch in the way that you want me to. If you doubt me truly, then I shall gladly order those courtesans dead if you so desire—”

“Oh, hush, Levi. I won’t be going as far as that, if I were you. They are also like me. Bring them to their demise, then I shall follow them.” He smirks haughtily, and glances at the closed doors behind him, “Besides, there are eyes and ears everywhere in this palace. You can’t have them being killed for a trifling reason.”

The emperor laughs, and returns the smirk all the same, “Ah, I’ve missed that, too. You calling me by my name. Well, if you wish, then I won’t be doing that.”

Eren’s smirk slowly turns into a barely-there smile, and a familiar calm washes over the two of them, both not wanting to break the comfortable silence.

Levi places his hands on his back and looks at the ceiling. “The night is still young,” he says. “What say you about playing me a song to ease our troubled hearts?”

Eren, now in a much calmer mood, lets out a withheld sigh with a little smile, “Of course, Your Highness. What instrument do you want me to play?”

The shift of tone and demeanor in the courtesan lifts a burden from the ruler’s shoulders, and Levi hums, his expression contemplative as his silver eyes soften, “I have seen you play to your clients the two-stringed vertical fiddle once. I long to hear from it once more. It was… solemn and calming—a nice sound of sadness, should I say.”

“Then I shall play it for you, Levi.”

* * *

A melancholic tune settles in the room of the Eagle, its sound blanketing tears and sadness to those who pass by the closed doors.

Inside the emperor’s quarters, Eren sits cross-legged on the floor, playing the two-stringed fiddle with the saddest song he has ever played. Levi sits on the duvet, the glass of wine long gone forgotten, as he becomes mesmerized by Eren’s rueful melody.

He closes his eyes, listening to the airy sighs the silk strings make. He hears it tremble and resonate, and he smiles. His heavy eyes open, and he gazes at Eren’s elegant and concentrated form.

The tanned male has changed out of his usual wardrobe of green that showcases his collarbones and shoulders, and has changed into a robe of pure, crimson-hued, gossamer silk that reveals his upper-half. A slip of fine silk conceals his lower half, much to Levi’s dismay. Covering the courtesan’s head is a silken veil that matches his outfit, and the ruler cannot help but be hypnotized at the ethereal display that is Eren.

The adept, tanned fingers hold the bow against the strings, caressing them with precision. Eren’s left hand goes higher against the strings he press on the neck, and the pitch turns lower, sadder—and it fills Levi with a feeling he cannot place.

The song goes on with the same sorrowful tune, and Levi, in the brief absence of his mind, cannot help but stand up and go over to the still playing courtesan—

A tear falls from those tanned cheeks. Even if the veil hides those tears, they cannot conceal them from those sharp, observant eyes—

He hugs the younger male, startling the latter from his music—

—the fiddle and bow falls to the floor with a silent thud—

“Play the tragic sorrow of my soul, if you will.”

Eren goes still, and he nods at the quiet words.

He understands, and he returns the shivering embrace.

That night, the sounds of the mournful fiddle dies, and it is replaced by a sound so familiar and not—a croon of a body snaps heavenward, a duet of voices ring out from the darkness—

Eren’s body sighs and sings and lets out a new melody that reaches a higher and higher pitch for the emperor that has destroyed and recreated his life—and the courtesan’s mind is aloft; he wishes for him, only for him and that broken soul, and nothing more.

* * *

  _Saw for the first time that the ruler repented_ _  
_

* * *

 


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

_With a blade hidden in the sleeves of his robes_

* * *

 “I could never make him mine,” Levi mumbles to himself as he looks over at a sleeping Eren lying by his side. Levi rests his cheeks on the heel of his palm as he observes the details of Eren’s body.

Faint and yellowed bruises are scattered at the small of his back and on his shoulder blades, the tanned skin emphasizing it even more. Even in the absence of light, he can still trace the oddness of the black and blue on his skin.

Levi frowns, and dashes a finger on one scar on his lower back. At one point, he almost thinks it had been his handiwork during his time with Eren, but no—the bruises are far bigger than his own hands, and he immediately surmises they are from his clients.

A wave of anger washes over him and the courtesan’s clients—anger over himself for not knowing it sooner, and anger at the men that have defiled Eren. He knew that Eren’s patrons are treating him with kindness, he had seen them before, even in the House of Tiger. He hums, and supposes the bruises are from his new clients who don’t know how to take care of Eren properly.

His mind drifts back to the sleeping body next to him, and Levi smiles as he sees the steady rise and fall of the young man’s chest. Nimble fingers idly pat brown locks, humming a song—that he had heard from Eren before—softly to himself.

“Hmm… hmm… of doom, with red, it slowly blooms—hmm… hmm… of color—the curtain now rises in this tale of—”

The smile from his lips slowly falls as he realizes the words of the song. An empty laugh escapes him, and he slides back to the covers, his eyes masking sorrow.

“You know what will happen to us in the end, don’t you, Little Tiger…?”

He hears no response, and doesn’t expect one, anyway, and he sighs.

The last few hours have been the most blissful Levi has ever had, and he wouldn’t have it any other way—the tingling feeling in his fingertips won’t stop as he recalls everything, the trembling on his lips won’t cease as his thumb caresses the coldness lying there—

Eren shifts noisily to his side, and silver eyes dart over to the tanned male, still unaware of the man observing him intently. Levi hums, and glances at the moonlit-illuminated shadows shifting beneath the sliding doors. He frowns, and places his arms back on the sleeping courtesan’s waist.

Sleep wafts over him not for long, and his eyes start to become heavy, and he groans out a quiet sigh, “I can’t make you mine, but…”

Levi goes into deep slumber, unaware of the pair of teal eyes looking at him with amusement.

“Sleep, Little Emperor.”

* * *

Eren twirls and hums around his room, smiling and laughing all the while—and Armin sees it all.

“Something good happened, I suppose?” he lightly says as he sets down Eren’s food on a small table. “I could practically hear you humming a mile away,” he laughs, and grins upon seeing Eren wolf down his food of deviled eggs and ham with a glass of fresh orange juice.

“Something good _did_ happen,” Eren confirms with a food-filled grin, and he swallows a mouthful of brioché and strawberry paps, much to Armin’s barely-masked disgust. “He finally made a move last night,” the courtesan says with a smile.

Those are the only words that Armin needs to hear, and he goes all over his charge, bubbling excitedly. “Well? He didn’t hurt you, did he? B-because if—” Armin’s arms start to shake, and Eren’s eyes widen when the blond takes out a silver dagger that reminds Eren of his own golden one.

“I-if the emperor dares to hurt you like one of your clients like last time, then—”

The slip of cold metal suddenly pierces the air, and Eren gulps. “Armin, you’re starting to look like the general’s wife. Besides,” he waves his hands in the air trying to calm the blue-eyed boy down, “the man who assaulted me was apprehended by Jean, so I’m fine now. And the emperor is different, despite that he claims to be heartless. He is not.”

At this, Armin slowly regains reason and composure in his eyes, and chooses not to comment about the Eagle ruler. “Oh. Right. He is now in the prison cell.”

“Executed,” Eren corrects. “You had the man executed for seeing him trying to force me on the bed. You were there, a week ago, when it happened. You almost slipped the blade from Jean’s hand and onto the man’s throat. Jean stopped you from killing the man, don’t you remember?”

“I remember,” Armin hastily admits, “I remember feeling remorse for not killing him sooner—”

Eren’s hands are on Armin’s shoulders in seconds, calming him down once more. “I am now fine, Armin. I really am.” And Armin’s anger subsides for the moment. The blond sighs, and rests his head on Eren’s shoulder, his words silent and void, and they keep it up like that, letting their coordinated breathing fill in the emptiness of their voices.

It is Armin who finally breaks the silence, “If you’re wondering, I got the dagger from your client, the old one.”

Eren, for the most part, is not surprised, “He gave you that?”

Armin nods, “Says it’ll be handy later on, so I decided I’ll use it to protect you.”

“When did he give it to you?”

“On the day of the banquet, right before I told you that he was there.”

“…oh. I see,” Eren blinks, and nods to himself, “as long as you’re not going to harm yourself with it, them I suppose it’s fine.”

Armin laughs, and soon after, they resume they duties. Both courtesan and servant go outside the palace in search for a new slew of clients, and Eren is not disappointed upon seeing new faces in front of the House of Tiger.

“Ah, Mistress!” Jean breathlessly heaves out as he looks over the heads of the throngs of people. “Good day, sir!” At this, some of the men crane their necks, trying and taking a good look at the aforementioned male.

Eren, already used to being looked and stared at, simply walks over to the guard, slipping bored, teal eyes at him. “How many today?” he asks.

“About an additional 15 today, sir.”

Eren sighs at the amount. Yes, he is glad for the increase of customers, but it will only add pain to his body once night comes. He glances at Armin, who is trying hard to ignore the stares being sent his way. Eren’s shoulders sag at the sight, and he quickly drags Armin back to the house, ignoring the cries of the men wanting to be serviced outside.

“Armin, this is only your second time coming with me to this type of place. Just say the word right now and I’ll bring you back to the palace—”

“No, I’ll stay,” the blond stubbornly retorts as he clutches onto his clothes. “I can’t have you being touched by filthy men like that anymore. And now that I see what you are going through everyday, I can’t just sit back and watch—”

A firm hand on his arm shocks Armin out of his thoughts, and Eren smiles and gives him his thanks, and it is all the blond really needs.

“Don’t mention it.”

* * *

It is not long before Eren is called and summoned to the emperor’s quarters on more than one occasion, and this time, Eren knows what is in store for him.

The room of the emperor is void of its usual throng of men and women, and until now, Eren has a hard time of ridding himself of the feeling of foreboding every time he nears the said room—a hard habit to break, it is, Eren makes sure not to bow his head upon seeing the emperor in his quarters, as what he was used to.

Sitting in the middle of the plush duvet is none other than the emperor himself, drinking a glass of wine like usual.

“What now,” Eren says, his tone clipped, and Levi shrugs and sloshes the glass in his spidery fingers.

“The usual, I suppose,” he calmly suggests, and Eren laughs as he approaches him. The courtesan stops in front of the reclining man, silver eyes curious at what he will do—

“‘The usual’? Well, isn’t that boring, Your Highness,” Eren slithers out. “Why not spice things up a little bit?” and a tanned foot slides up to the emperor’s leg—slowly, deliberately, seductively.

And Levi is mesmerized of it all.

“What do you plan to propose?” Levi breathes, his voice hitching as a big toe nudges his thinly clad thigh. “Will I like it?” he adds as an afterthought, to fill up the empty air that is starting to go arid—

“It depends if _you_ will like it, Your Highness,” Eren smiles. “Though I think someone of your stature will be able to handle it,” his teal gaze drifts to searing, regent ones, and he holds his stare. “You _are_ up to challenges, yes? I propose a bet, if you will.”

Levi’s face lights up at the mention of a game, and Eren smirks unabashedly.

“I’m listening,” the pale man says, and the courtesan places a finger on his own lips, speaking softly.

“You are to submit to me, Levi. Completely. Without fail. For two months.”

Levi’s brow rises, “What’s in it for me?”

Eren parts his lips. Levi’s eyes quickly follow.

“I am not to go and serve clients in those two months—if—and only _if_ —you shall abide by my rules.”

“And if I don’t acquiesce. Or if I disobey these rules of yours?”

Eren huffs and looks at him with a little simper, “Eager to disobey, are we? If you don’t follow my rules, then I am to return to my house, never to be bothered by your summons, or the palace, again. I am going to be the master of my own accord, and not even the Eagle ruler can stop me.”

Levi hums, and considers Eren’s words with a little pout. He shrugs and sneers, eyeing Eren with admiration, “Then I must make sure I am to obey you at all costs. Fair enough.”

Eren’s eyes snap to him, a rush of excitement filling his hurried words, “You will obey me? All my commands? You won’t be using your power as the emperor on me?”

And Levi shrugs once more, the little simper growing as he sips his wine, “I give you my word.”

Eren looks at him with unmasked triumph, those beryl eyes wider and clearer than ever, and he nods quickly, a jumbled word of “Yes” leaving his upturned lips. He eyes the emperor’s thigh, and he slowly removes his foot from the milky skin, and he regards the ruler with a hint of approval. “Let’s see how long you can last, Your Highness.” A breathy laugh erupts from Levi’s lips, and before he knew it, his face becomes smothered by a lean and tanned chest.

“Submit to me, Your Highness. And I will give you all you desire.”

Levi smirks on his collarbone, and trails a hot tongue there—

“Show me all you have to offer.”

And they kiss, mouths expertly latching onto one another, fingers touching searing skin, pallid and bronze mixing together as clothes are hastily thrown away, their robes discarded to abandon, and they sigh and pant and heave as everything becomes steamy within minutes. Regent eyes meet beryl, and their stares meet volumes as clammy palms run over smooth and marbled skin. They grunt and scratch and hiss as Eren lays Levi down on the mattress, and they do things of the unspeakable. Eren plunges into him, slowly, steadily, and Levi careens into oblivion as his body is pounded with a burning passion, bringing spit and sweat together as their bodies sing and sigh and redden in their feverish hold.

Eren slams deep into the pale man, and stays there as he watches Levi whine and grind his hips with much ardor.

Lean and pale legs wrap around sharp hips, and he gyrates and clenches and _teases_ —

And Eren lets out a strangled laugh and a groan, and he slowly pulls out, only for Levi to slam back in. Their mouths and tongues hang agape in the midst of ecstasy, and both are unaware of the duvet moving in sync beneath their sweating forms.

A shared kiss filled with tongue is exchanged for the last time, and they come with a gasp and a piercing cry—filling the walls with no sense of shame and pride, letting the entire palace hear their every noise.

And this continued on—the courtesan would go to the emperor’s quarters, and they would fight and retort and say hurtful words, because they both loathe and adore each other, and both would writhe in each other’s bodies—and soon after, the whole palace have come to know about the emperor and the courtesan’s newfound relationship.

During the times when they would frolic around and taste each other’s skin, a game, unknown to them, has been born—whoever falls first, loses. The emperor and the courtesan know of it well, and during their trysts, they would always watch each other’s moves, checking if something’s amiss, if something’s odd, if something’s changed—the never-ending possibilities plague their minds every time, and a mutual, love-hate relationship follows.

“You destroyed me,” Eren would always say while he pounds into the tight flesh of the ruler.

“I told you to stay away from me, time and again I told you that. But why do you always refuse?”

And both would fall silent, neither saying anything as they reach completion, and the unanswered question would always hand from Levi’s lips—a steady reminded of what binds them together.

“Eren,” the emperor calls him one day. He lounges around his room as he chews on a pastry, “I’m thinking of bringing a show to the others in the palace. A rare one, if you will.”

“What show?” Eren asks as he plucks the strings of a lute, earning him a lovely melody.

Levi turns his back to him and conceals a smile as he swallows the last of his pastry, “A show to show you off. It would be fitting, don’t you think?”

Eren, having no clue at all on what the emperor is suggesting, blinks and asks some more, “What will I have to do, then?”

* * *

Eren fights back a smile as a moan is ripped from his throat. He closes his eyes from the onlookers—all of them the men and women of the emperor. Some of them, Eren vaguely thinks, are the officials of the palace, General Erwin being among them.

Eren, who has previously agreed to the emperor’s idea of a ‘show’, clearly had no clue what he had meant—

—that he had to be sprawled out naked in the middle of his own room while being taken completely by the emperor himself.

He pants as he feels his hole being rammed deep, and a shuddering gasp leaves him as he is kissed by a pair of familiar, thin lips, and Eren welcomes the heat.

All that is happening now is not a part of their bargain, but Eren is willing to compromise with this one.

If this is the only way it takes to become the emperor’s property completely, then he will be willing—all too willing—to do it.

A shaky breath from above him signals that the emperor is coming close—and Eren bites his lips from complaining.

The courtesan doesn’t want it to end.

A plaything, he must look like to the people around him right now, but he thinks of it not like that, but as an act of kindness from the ruler.

“They will now know you are mine,” he had said to a still and speechless Eren two days ago.

A grunt from the pale man makes Eren smile in bliss, and the telltale, blooming warmth fills him up from waist down, and he sighs as he, too, comes with the emperor—filling the room with a silent cry.

The short, delightful moments of Eren’s consciousness are blurry, but are full of the emperor’s sultry voice, nonetheless. Cooing soothing words into his ear in his deep vibrato as his hair is being stroked affectionately, Eren lets out one final sigh as he feels his forehead being kissed.

Right before he completely slips into a deep slumber, he swears he hears the emperor say to the curious eyes:

“He is now mine. Touch him, and die by my hands.”

The words said with fierceness bring a warm light to Eren’s weary self.

* * *

Eren, despite being repeatedly requested by many of the palace’s officials since he and the emperor have performed in front of them, continues to reject them with all his might. “I keep my word,” he had said to the emperor before, and he plans to keep in that way.

He is currently sitting by the pond in front of his room, with Armin to keep him company, teal eyes watching the fishes swim about without a care, when he is approached by a familiar man.

Eren doesn’t look up when he hears the telltale sound of heavy, metal-bound feet.

“Good day, General.”

Erwin stops in his tracks, and smiles at the kneeling courtesan by the water. “Good day to you, too, Eren. The fishes are at peace today, I assume?”

Eren smiles and plays with the water’s ripples, amused at the way the kois are startled by his fingers. “They are at peace, yes. Lovely creatures, they are. They simply swim in the coldness of the water without a care in the world, reeling with all their might, only to die by the hands of a human desperately wanting his belly to be fed. Funny, isn’t it—how people destroy these creatures easily with a net and spear.”

“Ah, but you are also human, correct?”

Eren glances at him, and flits his eyes back to the pond, “Yes. Yes, I am. I’m also a dangerous creature, prowling in the waters, waiting patiently for my next prey.”

Erwin falls silent, and Eren thinks the conversation has fallen short. He opens his mouth to speak once more, but the blond beats him to it.

“Is it all right to fall prey into your experienced hands?”

The question catches him (and Armin) off-guard, and two pairs of eyes look at him warily.

Erwin, sensing the sudden tension at the cause of his words, laughs, an awkward one at that, and the sides of his face crinkle to a full-blown smile. “I simply want company, if you don’t mind.”

“Why not seek for the emperor’s company, then? Surely he would be a better choice of companionship, since you two act like best friends.”

Blue eyes blink, and Erwin lets out a chuckle, “Ah, yes, we are considered that. But the emperor is a busy man these days, you see. With the war against the nearby country, it’s a wonder that he can even spend time with you—”

Turquoise eyes sharply turn to him in an instant, and Erwin looks away with a smile, a real one.

“It is meant to be a compliment,” he says with an air of confidence. “Levi, despite being surrounded by his paramours and is always talkative, is usually reserved when it comes to the matters of the heart. Lately, though, he has been saying things that are not of his usual self. He is—how should I say it—he is becoming more _human_. I am starting to see the Levi I thought I had lost the day he had taken over Eagle land.”

Eren’s face turns melancholic, his eyes distant, and he mumbles out a barely-spoken whisper, words that Erwin strains to hear, “Was he always like this, though? Always so cold despite being hot-blooded all the time.”

“He could be, if he wants to, but then he had met you,” Erwin side-glances at the courtesan, “And I thought, ‘Ah, he could be it. He could bring the lost Levi back. He could bring back the humanity he had lost.’ And this is why I wanted to talk to you.”

“To tell me of this, you mean,” Eren laughs, his voice a refined sound to Erwin’s ears. “But that is not your intention when you first came here, if I recall correctly.” A sly glance at the tall blonde’s face, and Eren knows he had him.

The general bites back a laugh, and this time, he locks eyes with the younger male. “Ah, so it would seem. I have heard from Levi that you are good company.” He pauses, and rocks his feet back and forth, thinking of the next words to say. He breathes deeply, and he eyes the sky, “Say, how much do you know about the tactics of war?” He looks at him with that of pride, for a reason that Eren cannot fathom. Nevertheless, the courtesan does not disappoint. Beryl eyes look away, back to the pond, and he replies.

“This is about the war between Eagle and Rose, isn’t it? I don’t think it would be wise to trust the words of a lowly courtesan, General. I am one who uses sweet words to con men for their pleasure and money, not one who is defending the country.”

“Ah, you are right. But you are not originally a lowly courtesan, correct?”

Eren snaps his eyes to him, his jaw tense, and does not speak.

“You are a wise boy, from what I have gathered. Don’t ask how I got that info,” he chuckles, and the gentle smile from his face falls completely as he turns to Eren, all traces of false joviality gone from him as he shakes his shoulders.

Armin readily tucks his hand into his sleeve, but is silenced by a glare from Eren.

“Eren, we are currently losing the war—and I am gathering all information how to defeat the Rose country. They are always on the defensive, and we can’t break through. Much of the brigades under my command have perished, and I can’t risk anymore—”

“And the emperor knows of this?” Eren asks, incredulous, and Erwin nods gravely. The courtesan scoffs, and lets out a wry laugh, and regards the general with a smirk. “Isn’t it about time that the Eagle land falls into ruins in the hands of another country?”

Erwin’s stare hardens, and his voice is strained as he speaks. He squeezes the courtesan’s arms tighter, but he knows that Eren ignores the pain blooming on his arms in favor of seeing the General of the Armies get riled up—and it’s working like a charm.

“I am not to see the day of Eagle’s fall. Not when I’m alive. I know you are angry at him for taking away your freedom and your life—I understand that—but you are now living in the land that he owns, and you have no choice but to obey him and his rules,” he grits his teeth at the complacent smile on Eren’s face, but dares not to hurt him further. “I’d rather die defending my country than see it fall to the hands of another kingdom. Never again will I run away, Eren.”

Eren blankly looks at him, then at Armin, who has fallen silent throughout it all, and he sighs as he spits daggers at Erwin’s grim face.

“You men and your worthless pride.”

* * *

The emperor’s voice rings loud in the stillness of the room. All the officials look at him with utmost solemnity, and he points at the map he has laid out in front with his sword.

“So we are to kill the soldiers surrounding the border with the archers—”

The doors to the closed-off room opens, and in comes an egoistic-looking general and a stern-faced Eren, who bows upon seeing the emperor.

The ruler, unaware of Erwin’s plan, glares at the blue-eyed man. “Erwin? What is the meaning of this? Why is Eren here?”

The general simply smiles at the ruler turns to a solemn and passive Eren, “We are to try a different tactic in battle. With the help of this young man here.”

And outrage breaks out in the room.

“What is a courtesan supposed to do?”

“He is not a soldier! He does not know anything!”

“Your Highness, what is this nonsense?”

“Go back to giving yourself to the nobles, you whore—!”

A gasp. A heavy slash of a sword. And the Colonel of the Armies falls dead to the floor.

“No one is allowed to speak ill of Eren. I thought I have made that clear before,” the emperor deadpans, his face void of emotion as he calmly wipes the blood from the blade. Cold sweat breaks from the men as they glance at their murdered comrade, but no one dares to speak or to look at the emperor in the eye. “Now,” he looks at his stunned officials, then at the stoic general and the unfazed courtesan, “I trust it you have a special reason on why you have brought Eren here?”

Erwin smirks at the ruler and tuts, “I have heard from a certain Eagle that a Tiger has the cunning and intelligence of a snake, and I would like to see that ability in the field of a battle—”

“Are you insane?” the emperor shrieks, “Eren is not of the army! He’ll die before he even gets to—”

“And who says I will be in the front lines, Your Highness? Please do not get ahead of yourself and assume things that are completely impossible,” Eren suddenly retorts, one thick eyebrow raised as he inches closer to the distressed ruler. “I will provide you with intelligence and tactics that you have never tried in battle, not bring you my own corpse once the fight ends. Maybe now you will win,” he utters haughtily, and some of the officials look at each other with uncertainty. The emperor, however, looks livid, and is about to argue more, if it isn’t for Erwin’s interruption.

“Levi, listen to him first, ask questions later,” the blond whispers, and the emperor glances at a softly smiling Eren, then at a nodding Erwin, and the pale man reluctantly agrees and sits down. The officials do the same, and Eren bows.

“Thank you for your benevolence, Your Highness. General,” Eren says coyly, and the ruler sighs.

“If this is your idea of a joke, Erwin, then I say it’s not even funny.” He rubs his temples, unwilling to look at Eren’s grinning eyes and his seductively tanned shoulders and collarbones.

The courtesan approaches the map in front and confidently faces the soldiers and the emperor. With a deceptive smile, he starts, “Gentlemen, Your Highness, I fail to see why you would try to create a distraction by showering the enemy line with poisoned arrows. It will only cost us troops should the hidden soldiers from Rose come up—” He points to a wavy line on the map that shows the area of Eagle land and the outskirts of Rose country, “—right here, where the river banks have come to a halt. Soldiers will surely be here, beneath the bunkers, hidden and waiting in plain sight until the right time comes. It has happened before—once the Eagle army had killed the front lines of the Rose army, they charged, and were unprepared for the swordsmen hiding from where they couldn’t see—right, General?” He turns to a gravely nodding Erwin, and Eren continues, “That had been Eagle’s mistake. We have plunged into the enemy territory without our knowing, and it had cost us the lives of countless men in our ranks.”

Eren pauses, and stares hard at all of the people in the room, the emperor being the target of his deadliest glare. “But I propose a different tactic, one that you have never thought of before, Your Highness.”

The emperor’s ears perk up at being addressed directly, and he sits up straighter, much to Eren’s amusement.

“At the edge of our territory is a large river dividing Eagle from Rose. Should we cross it, then those archers waiting for a chance to strike on the other side will kill our soldiers in the front lines. Rose is a land that relies heavily on defense. It is a large country filled with resources that we cannot obtain here in Eagle land. Break that defense, and they will crumble to our feet.”

“Then how do you suppose we break this defense of theirs?” asks one minister. “If the river is a part of their impenetrable defense, then how can we defeat them?”

The courtesan hums, and lazily flutters his eyes closed, “We deplete them of this river that they so heavily rely on.”

And the room roars in upheaval.

“Madness, I say!”

“We can’t dry up a river! There has to be a dam to make the water stop!”

“And if we are to build one, the enemy would have noticed us building it from miles away! They would long notice us building the dam, we wouldn’t finish it in time before we—”

“And this is why we have to wait for the opportune moment,” Eren calmly says with a flick of his finger. “The drought is coming in a couple of months, and we have to act fast when that time comes. General, more sacrifices are to be made for the human wave attack. It is sad and inevitable, I know. But it is to be done.”

“What is to be done, Eren?” the emperor finally queries, his tone kept in his usual deadpan as he cocks his head in what Eren assumes as mild interest. “Are you suggesting that we build a damned dam in the middle of the scorching sun?”

A shiny display of teeth. And all-knowing smile. And Eren shrugs. “Yes, this is exactly what I am suggesting.”

“I retract my previous opinion about you. You are insane, Eren,” the ruler shakes his head in disbelief. “What makes you think that that will work? It’s not like we can even wait for the drought just so we could stealthily sneak into the enemy territory at dawn and place large logs to trap the water to make it look like the sun had dried the river up and—”

The emperor’s words falter, and he stares at the slow smile creeping to Eren’s lips.

Silver eyes widen in realization.

“—and once the enemy has seen that the water has dried up, they will take it as a chance to attack—”

Erwin nods at the emperor’s conclusion, the smug upturn on his lips evident as he speaks, “Eren, you said sacrifices are still to be made in this battle. Would you care to tell us what these sacrifices are?”

Eren looks thoughtful for a moment, and ponders and mumbles something incoherent, and slides a simper as he slips a lock away from his brow. Offhandedly, he utters, “There are still people that, sadly, need to die—to make it look like everything in Eagle has fallen in disarray. Throw Rose country into confusion—and in that decisive moment—”

“We will attack,” he emperor finishes with a barely-concealed smirk.

“But how will we?” asks one official. And three pairs of eyes slide to the curious man—

—in perfect unison, they speak out—

“We will sacrifice the slaves—”

“Those from the rebel army of Stallion will be the ones—”

“—to die by the hands of the enemy.”

The general, the emperor, and the courtesan look at each other with knowing smiles, and the pallid faces of the ministers stare at their leaders in horror—and the three madmen nod in approval.

“It appears we are of the same wavelength, Eren,” the emperor says proudly. “Where did you learn to have a morbid mind like that?”

“From you, Your Highness,” Eren answers with no hesitation, and Erwin guffaws, much to the emperor’s disappointment.

“Yes,” the ruler monotonously breathes out, avoiding Eren’s steady and accusatory glare completely, “I seem to have the innate talent of bringing out the hidden, morbid minds in people.”

And Erwin laughs even harder.

The ministers, all at a loss of what to do at this point, merely join in with the merry laughter of the general.

The emperor sighs, and the courtesan bows, for he knows what the ruler’s gesture means.

“We are to attack Rose at the start of the month of drought, where everything is taken dry by the sun. We are to follow courtesan Eren’s suggestion. Though he is not of the army, he has enough knowledge to see and comprehend the situation clearly in a short amount of time. If anyone dares to complain about his ability, then please, tell me a better suggestion than his,” he commands, and the ministers fall silent for a moment, before yelling out an affirmative to follow his rules. Satisfied, he gives Eren a sidelong glance, “Eren, if this plan of yours fails, I—”

“You will have my head, I know.”

“…That thought didn’t even cross my mind for a second.”

“…oh.”

* * *

The day of the attack comes in full force.

The traps in the waters have finally been laid out painstakingly by the soldiers of Eagle land for the past month. Every day at dawn, where the people have been resting in the comforts of their cots, concealed from the watchful eyes of the soldiers from Rose country, logs from the sturdiest of trees have been set to stone against the corners of the large river—slowly, gradually, agonizingly—until the waves of the steady waters have receded to half of its usual amount.

The day comes when the lines upon lines of Rose soldiers soon follow, all of them assuming that the river dividing them from Eagle has finally been dried up by the arid heat.

Emperor Levi sits on his throne, overseeing everything from afar, and standing beside him is none other than a calm Eren, looking far too pleased as he studies the lack of emotion on the ruler’s face.

In the middle of the arid land where the battle is about to begin, there sits General Erwin on his gallant steed, waiting for the moment that the enemy will fall to their trap.

Hours pass by, and the river starts to dissipate even more.

By noon, everything has almost dried up, and the cries from the Rose soldiers pierce the Eagle soldiers’ ears. Loud and frightening is their charge towards the border of Eagle land—

—only to fall short when their horses have whinnied and cried and stopped in the middle of the river.

The soldiers of Eagle prepare for an attack, and Erwin circles his army with a cry for the battle.

“Men! Wait for the signal!”

The soldiers of Rose completely stop in their tracks, cursing, and they remove the hidden spikes in the water from the hooves of their horses.

From afar, Eren looks at the enemy army with detachment.

“Orders, sir!” calls one soldier, and Eren says nothing. The emperor doesn’t speak, and merely tucks his chin on his palm, observing everything calmly.

Eren eyes the soldiers of Rose, and feels his heart thundering in his chest despite his stoic appearance. He waits for the enemy soldiers to completely pick up the iron spikes laid out in the waters, waits for them to go and mount back on their horses and charge at Erwin’s army in full speed—

—he waits for all the Rose soldiers to run into the middle of the dried up river—

—and Eren raises his right hand.

The lookouts immediately scramble to their posts, and they send out fire signals to the nearby towers.

The horns from the watchtowers around the palace send out its deafening wail throughout Eagle land, signaling the time of their attack.

In the arid river, a messenger riding a horse approaches the general in the middle of the brigade, and he lets out the wail of the horn with a loud cry:

“The signal has been sent! Release the waters!”

And Erwin unsheathes his sword and yells out to his men the same message.

The Rose soldiers, calling the Eagle army a joke for sending out reinforcements at the impending attack, raise their swords in the air and cheers, boosting their army’s morale—

The ground shakes, and everything rumbles around them, shaking the horses to their very feet—

—the sound of a thunderous gush of water roars through the Rose army’s ears, along with the booming noise of rocks and logs rolling in the frightening waves—

The screams of the Rose army shower the endless blue sky as they are plunged into their watery deaths, and the roars of cheering from the Eagle soldiers join in with the noise of the raging river.

From the fortress of Eagle land, there is a resounding shout of victory.

In the midst of the afterglow of the conquest, a shrewdly smiling Eren pours the smirking emperor a glass of wine.

“We have won, Your Highness,” Eren says simply, and the unmistakable pride in his voice reaches the emperor.

“Indeed, we have, thanks to you, Eren,” he whispers, and he glances at the astute countenance of the simpering courtesan. In a breathless undertone, he sighs out, “What will I ever do without you…? You have charmed me with your beauty and your wit, and now you have captivated me with your ability to fool both the ally and the enemy. No one of our soldiers died in battle, contrary to what you said before. Even if the ministers were adamant that you shouldn’t toy with the lives of the slaves and the rebel army, you still managed to make them do it in the end. Eren, what are you?”

In turn, the courtesan bows and graces the emperor an eyeful of his bronzed skin. He looks at him, and a hidden smile graces his cunning mind.

“Why, I am your favored Jewel, am I not?”

* * *

_He fell into a love that he can't even throw_

* * *

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To zzxya, and to Yullenator from FFN, thank you for creating the wonderful fanart of dancing courtesan!Eren! I haven’t got the time to thank the readers enough, with school being a bitch and all. Therefore, to those who have read all the chapters, and to those who have reviewed wholeheartedly, I really thank you! Also, a convo I had with a friend in Facebook struck me something—a request to my readers, of sorts. If anyone of my readers in both Ao3 and FFN could draw, I would like to request them of drawing a picture of Emperor!Levi in his usual thin robe of royal blue sitting on his gaudy throne, with one of the robe’s sleeves slipping to his shoulders, exposing his torso—and I think that’s too much of a request. XD I cannot draw the scenes out on paper, you see, so I can only write them.
> 
> And now I have rambled too much.

* * *

_The emperor’s heart then began to grow_

* * *

The Eagle land soars with merriment. In the midst of the victorious battle two days ago, everyone is in high spirits, and the palace, for once in a long time, gives out its surplus to the common people. Food supplies, excess clothes, trinkets of high value, the much-needed salt—

—and the people of Eagle showers praises to its ruler.

“They are happy, Levi. It has been long,” comments a grinning Erwin to the scowling emperor. They are standing over the gates of the palace, where they can easily oversee the people from below. “How long has it been since you last give out to the people?”

The ruler crosses his arms, looks away from the general, and grumbles out, “About four months. Maybe half a year?” He shrugs, “I don’t know. I forgot.”

“Ah, you have been neglecting your duties again, Your Highness?”

The emperor sighs as Erwin stifles a laugh. Silver eyes turn to a bowing Eren standing beside the ever-faithful Armin.

“Good day, Your Highness. General.”

The emperor looks at the lavishly dressed courtesan approvingly, though he comments nothing as he sticks his nose high, and opts to ignore the playful question from Eren’s lips. He greets him in his usual deadpan manner, though a pair of raising brows says so otherwise. “Good day, Eren. What brings you here?”

The tanned male approaches the ruler and the general with the same hidden smile, “I have heard the people cheering for the emperor’s generosity, and I thought of congratulating you for finally seeing the needs of your subjects.” He sees the emperor look away with a scoff and hears the general snort back a muffled laugh, and the entertainer giggles as he leans over to the frowning man, “You are embarrassed, yes? I know you have a soft heart hidden in there somewhere in that hollow thing you call a heart. You just don’t show it to people often, do you?”

The emperor grunts as a reply, and from the corner of Eren’s eye, he sees the tall blond hunching over, trying to settle down his bubbling laughter.

“Feh. Hush your assumptions, Eren. How are the other courtesans?” the ruler asks with a snap in his voice, though the teal-eyed male knows it’s supposed to be a casual inquiry, he cannot help but feel somehow miffed.

Eren frowns, makes a disgruntled noise at the back of his throat, rolls his eyes, and sighs. It has been like this for the past two weeks now—the emperor would always ask him if he were fine in the company of the other courtesans. Not that he was not a bit happy about being asked for his well-being, but still—“Always eager to change the topic when it comes to your emotions, I know.” His brows curl downwards and glances at the silent emperor in dismay, “The courtesans are still alive and kicking, if that’s what you’re worried about. They are still free from diseases according to the physician—”

“You know that isn’t what I mean.”

Eren narrows his eyes, and notes the sudden silence from his right. He glimpses over his shoulder, and surely, the General of the Armies isn’t there anymore. He sighs, and turns his attention back to the ruler, “Then what is it that you mean?”

The emperor lets out a heavy sigh, and the all too familiar frown settles on his face. “Are they treating you well? Do you not feel pressure when you are with them? Do they follow your command? Or do they only follow your orders when I am around?”

“Too many questions plague your mind, Your Highness,” Eren chuckles. “Although I am quite flattered that you think of me constantly, don’t give yourself too much credit. They follow me even if you are not looking. Lady Petra and I, we are their leaders now. And they are doing well in obeying our every command.”

The emperor’s shoulders fall, his body appearing more relaxed than earlier, and he faces away from him.

“Is your worried heart appeased now, Your Highness?”

The ruler closes his eyes, his face now settling into a sea of calmness, and in a soft voice, he whispers, “I am now at ease, yes. If you are at peace, then I am, too.”

The courtesan graces him a tender smile, though he doesn’t see it. “Thank you, Your Highness,” and his smile turns into a small simper, and his eyes turn soft, one that the emperor fails to see.

“You are truly, truly kind.”

* * *

Eren is out in the markets, buying a new set of clothes for his next dance in the palace. Behind him, a meek Armin trails him loyally.

“I’ll take this for 50 dems, then.”

The merchant gasps in mock shock, and waves his finger in front of Eren, tutting as he lets out a hearty laugh. “Ah, but this golden robe is of the highest quality!” exclaims the man in glee. “It is made of the finest gold, and mulberry silk is drawn on the very intricate embroidery, and! Hear this, good sir—” He leans closer to the slightly amused courtesan, the wide grin still in place, “Rumor has it that this fine piece of garment here, this beautiful, beautiful piece here, had been worn by the emperor of Tiger land himself!” The plump man strokes the fine prints on the fabric, and looks at Eren with wide eyes, “Here, see this emblem here? This is the symbol of the Tiger country! The face of the tiger with the fiercest, greenest eyes! Good sir, surely, this clothing is worth more than 50 dems.”

Eren smirks at the golden robe laid out in the man’s arm. Yes, he had seen the insignia of Tiger land; he was born there, after all. Also, he knows that the robe before him is the actual robe worn by the former ruler of the once Tiger land. He had seen it too many times to count—

—but to see the former spoils of war from his beloved country being distributed around in the markets of Eagle for the sake of currency is truly—

Eren’s jaw tightens, and before he could even realize what he was going to do, an agitated Armin shakes him free from the fabric that he had somehow clutched fiercely in his hold.

“Eren, you are shivering badly,” he mumbles nervously, and his blue eyes flit for a second to his far left, where a man wearing a conical hat tries to conceal himself from the eyes of the passersby. The little blond blinks, and he repeatedly taps Eren on the arm hurriedly, pointing at the direction where the mysterious man is. “Eren, Eren! That odd man is here…!”

The courtesan finally returns to reality at his servant’s words, and he lets out a mumbled, “Huh” as he glances to where Armin points. Eren sees the familiar conical hat, and the ever-notable mustache that the man has, and the tanned man grins as he turns to the still babbling merchant, and he takes out a bag of coins from the sleeves of his robes, dangling it in front of the man.

“What say you about giving that robe to me for ten dems, along with this agate brooch here? It is a very, _very_ expensive brooch, one that once belonged to the emperor of Eagle himself. And it costs more than 250 dems.” He suspends the jewelry in front of the greedy man’s eyes, giving him a deceptively sweet smile, “Well? What say you, O Great Merchant of Eagle? Will you take it?”

The man’s eyes glint and his mouth almost waters at the sight of the perfectly circular brooch laden with three white pearls on the bottom. He sees it shine in the sun; he gulps at the intricate details of the precious stone, and he finds himself fervently nodding to Eren’s trade.

“T-two hundred and fifty dems?” the merchant stammers, and his hands curl in the air, hovering on the shiny brooch. With a cry, he begs. “I will take it! I will take it!”

And Eren hides the brooch in his tanned palm.

The plump man cries out immediately, “It’s not good enough?” Eren doesn’t answer, and merely smiles, and the merchant wails harder, “Fine, fine! Take it! Take the robe for free! Just give me that brooch!”

Eren bows and coyly smiles, “Thank you for your kindness, sir. Very well, I’ll be taking the robe.” The trade is exchanged, and he and Armin parts ways with the overly gleeful merchant.

Once out of the merchant’s earshot, Armin looks back, and he taps Eren’s shoulder, whispering to him. “But you just got that at a bargain of five dems! It doesn’t even belong to the emperor. Besides, I don’t think that merchant even knows that he just got a fake agate—!” he harshly whispers, and Eren stifles a laugh, shushing him with a finger to his lips.

“A foolish man, he is, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t know the real value of things.” The courtesan sneers, and glances at a corner of a dark alley, where he sees the ever-familiar man covering his face with his hat, his back turned to Eren. “Good day, sir. I see you are wandering around the area?”

The man, who has been trying to conceal himself from the people, turns around to see the smiling Eren and the bashfully bowing Armin, “Ah, so you have found me.” The man gives Eren a wrinkled smile, and he gestures behind him, leaving no room for the two to argue. “Shall we talk in your place? There is something I need to say to you.”

* * *

The House of Tiger, with its usual boisterousness and loud cheer, is silent in a long while. Gone are its usual patrons, and the noise of the night are only that of the people outside, the occasional chatter and the bellowing voices of the vendors and buyers litter the air.

Inside, Armin stands not far away from the entrance of the House, his whole self on guard should Eren be in harm’s way. In the backmost room, Eren sits in front of the gently smiling old man, plucking away the melodious strings of a lute. The man glances at the golden robe on his lap from time to time, patting it with a serene look of fondness on his face.

Eren has given the golden robe to him earlier, saying that it needs to return to its real owner.

“Eren,” the man says softly, and the sound of the lute stops as the courtesan looks up questioningly. He beckons him with his hand, and Eren obeys and sits directly in front of him. The man looks at the beryl-eyed boy and nods silently to himself. “Have you considered it? The task that I gave you?”

At this, the young man stills and turns a shade paler, his eyes wide and his lips becoming a tad too dry as he nervously shakes his head, gulping. “I don’t think I can do it, Your Majesty. I am naught but a lowly courtesan of Eagle land. A puppet to his every beck and call. No matter what I say, I am still a person living in his lands.”

“But do you want your freedom back?”

“I do!” Eren yells out as he suddenly stands up, and he gasps at the shocked face of the man, and the courtesan falls back and returns to sitting, “I mean, I do want my freedom back, Your Majesty. More than anything else, but…”

Eren falls silent, bows his head, and falls into a soft whisper of words not meant to be heard by anyone—a confession blooms from his lips, and he does nothing to stop it.

“He has become someone I want to have, but I can never have him—because he is our enemy. The one who destroyed our country. But he is kind and unkind, strong and weak, cunning and gullible, a being I can never understand—yet I pine for him for reasons that I can never untangle.” Eren’s breath hitches, and his hands ball into fists shaking against his lap, “I have fallen, Your Majesty. I have fallen for a man that is not of my own. I have fallen for someone I know I can never have in the end. I want my freedom, yet I want him to cage me. I want my country, yet I want to live in the lands that he takes. I want the others to disappear, for him to look at only me—because I am just as selfish as he is.”

The former ruler of Tiger land says nothing, and lets Eren continue, sees him clutch his shivering fist to his chest, and the courtesan sobs.

“‘I have fallen, and yet I have not. I have loved and yet I have not. Afraid is what I am, of seeing that very person crumble in my own hands. Clement and wintry is our touch—to have him with me is my hidden wish.’ I have written that to you on the night I met you as a courtesan. I am a fickle person, Your Majesty, swayed and not swayed by the wishes of my heart and mind. I want to destroy him just as how he destroyed me, but I cannot. I want to, but I don’t want to. Please don’t make me do this…!”

The man’s face contorts into sadness for the boy. It takes a long time before the older man sighs and smiles at the form of the distressed courtesan, his expression softening, like that of an understanding father to his son. “Have you truly, truly set your heart to this person that ruined your family and your life?”

A choked breath slips from Eren as he finally glances up at the frail, yet intimidating man. His lips quiver, and the words stumble clumsily from him, a whisper slithers, and his heart is finally being laid bare for the former ruler to see. “I—yes, Your Majesty. I have.”

“And have you ever considered setting your mission away, all for him?” The man’s eyes narrow just the slightest, his lips set in a thin line. Eren knows the question is a test—

—but a thought crosses his mind, screams at him to say it out in the open, for the man and for the world to hear.

Eren feels his lips go drier as the voice in his head echoes louder, and his eyes become unfocused from the tears gathering there. His frame quivers like a lost child not knowing what to do, and looking into the patient eyes of the man, Eren finally lets out his fragile and hidden heart. “I have,” he confesses in a soft voice, “because he had encaged me in this cruel and capricious emotion. I—am not completely—head over heels for him, but—it is there, a feeling I am trying hard to suppress, but I cannot, because my eyes trail to his when I see him, and I am enraptured all over again.”

Eren tries to blink away the hot tears springing forth, but does nothing as the dampness now slowly wets his cheeks, he sees the man’s eyes close, and a small smile settles there. “I see,” he hears the man whisper, and Eren, for a moment, feels fear strike his heart as the golden-eyed male stands up—and he helps Eren to his feet with a firm and steady hold.

The baffled courtesan winces at the touch as he is pulled to stand up, and readies himself for the expected retort, the beating, anything that will appease the man before him—

—and the man firmly pats Eren on the shoulders, lets out a hearty laugh, and nods softly to himself. “You are human, yes you are. A hardheaded and erratic one, at that. But it is fine,” his shoulders sag with something Eren can only describe as relief at something that he doesn’t understand. “Please, should your feelings for him change, please reconsider your mission,” and he graces him with a proud smile—something that Eren has yet to understand.

The former ruler pats Eren on the head, nods to himself once more, and departs with a kind word to Armin, who is still standing at the entrance with squared shoulders and a stoic face.

The courtesan, finally composing himself, sharply turns around and opens his mouth to say something, only to halt at the sight of the shutting door.

Eren is left alone in the room, with nothing but his pieces of thoughts scattering all over his weary mind. In his dazed state, he falls to back to the floor, and finally lets his loose robes fall to his arms, exposing his bronzed skin to the clammy air.

He stays there for a long while, and in his misery, a song finally drifts to his ears, and his voice cracks and his pitch becomes incoherent as the notes slip from his crying drone.

“The man of Tiger, had for many years—” —a sniffle— “always longed for freedom and voiced out his tears…” He buries his face in his hands, and the words of the song he had written on one cold night many moons ago for the Eagle ruler comes back to haunt him in the evilest of ways.

“ _Torn between his duty to reclaim what he had lost—he chose his love and soon began to trust._ ”

* * *

A humming Erwin casually strides into the room of the courtesan. His visits to Eren are becoming more and more frequent lately since the courtesan’s plan to attack the defense of Rose had turned out successful—and the palace notices it, and the news arrives to the emperor’s ears. He summons the general to his quarters there and then, and Erwin merely smiles and looks at the emperor with a laugh when he hears of the accusation—that the General of the Armies is seducing the Emperor’s Jewel into the ways of the night.

“Are you jealous, then? That I am visiting his quarters more often than yours? It is not like I am one of your paramours, you know. Besides, I am inquiring him of his opinions of his tactics in war, which are turning out to be very, very intelligent. His mind is that of a soldier through and through. Should I make him into a part of my army? A captain, perhaps?”

The emperor scoffs, and gulps down the glass of his wine, setting it on the nearby table with a loud thud. “He is a courtesan— _my_ courtesan. Not a soldier. Not _your_ soldier,” he barks and stands, gritting his teeth and stomping his bare feet as he strides towards the kneeling general. A small hand coils around the blonde’s neck, gripping it tight in his angry hold. “You know I want him. You know I desire him. So why do you want to make me mad at him? Is it because you have found a new flame? Is it because you think I am shallow, to have me pushing my other paramours away when Eren is nearby? Is it because I am erratic? Not knowing where to place my heart where I want it to be?”

The general looks at him with a small smile, and he chuckles, looking away from him as he shakes his head. “I am not diverting my attention away from my wife, I’m not even thinking of stealing him from you, if that is what you are insinuating. I am merely asking him for help—for the growth of this country that you rule over for so long.”

“Stop dragging him in matters that don’t involve him,” the emperor hisses with a pained face, and Erwin looks at him and frowns.

“He is now of this country, of course the war now involves him. Plus, you are in love with him,” the general states matter-of-factly, his expression blank and neutral as he searches the emperor’s face for a hint of an unspoken confession, “I can see it. You are smitten by him—by the very tart you have turned him into—”

“Don’t say such things!” the pale man barks, and the hold on the blonde’s neck loosens, and the emperor lets go of him roughly, turning his back to him as his hands shake into tight fists. He breathes, lets the feel of his hammering heart even out in the midst of his rising temper. With his jaws tense, he hisses. “I am smitten, I think. When he is with me, I am calm, no matter what he does. He is the complete opposite of me, and at the same time, he is the same as me. Passionate in different aspects, in a way—different, but all the same.” He turns to glance at Erwin with a bitter smile, “I am strange, am I not? Because I do not know where to place this troublesome thing called feelings.” He laughs with the absence of hilarity, and sighs woefully as he flits his silver eyes from blue ones once more. Bowing, he laments, “Do you think I should get rid of him, Erwin? Because he sways me from my emperor self?”

The room stills in the unmasking of the question—and it is long before the general answers, and when he does, it is with a smile that resonates along with his baritone. “If it is what keeps you human, then I suppose you shouldn’t get rid of him. But a word of caution—should his feelings come in the way that you rule, then you must slaughter the very heart that you have for him. It is for the sake of our country, and I won’t have you risking it—”

“I have said this before, Erwin,” the emperor mutters as he gives him a sidelong glare, “I am willing to let this nation burn to the ground—if it is for him, then I shall do it.”

The certainty in the emperor’s voice rings loud and clear to Erwin’s hearing, and all he can do is to heave a sigh from his suddenly heavy heart.

No matter what, the emperor remains his ally, his comrade in arms, his best friend—all that the ruler does, the general follows, through and through.

“I will let you do as you please for now—but be warned, Levi. Stay on guard. Always do.”

And the ruler’s face softens just a tad, the smallest hint of a smile present on his petal lips, and he mumbles words that Erwin strains to hear.

Blue orbs narrow just the slightest, but says nothing as Levi breathes out his words.

“I cannot make promises, Erwin. He is what my heart wants—and I always follow what I want.”

General Erwin says nothing, merely nods, mouthing to himself two words—‘I see’—and departs in the same authoritative manner he has came in.

Levi lets himself sink in the deep forests of the labyrinth of his waywardness—and in his somber stupor, he curls into a ball of silence in the coldness of his mattress, and he heaves a sigh.

* * *

Armin is silent the whole time Eren fixes the sash of his robes as he hums and twirls in his usual sly self.

“How about this black ribbon around my neck, Armin? Will it suit me?” he asks and turns, and frowns upon seeing the servant idly holding the bed sheets in his hands, his body still and unmoving. Curious, Eren goes over to the blond and taps him on the shoulder, surprising Armin out of his stupor. “You are spacing out,” Eren says curtly. “Did something happen?”

And the servant shakes his head, giving him a smile that looks too forced to Eren’s eyes. “I am just tired, you see—”

“Is this about the general visiting my room recently?”

The blond stiffens, and his hold on the sheets tightens as he looks away. There is no turning back once the question hangs on his head now. In a barely audible voice, he murmurs, “Yes it is.”

And all at once, Eren understands—the pain of seeing the one that you love having his eyes on another. A cruel thing, it is—and tanned hands reach out, “I am sorry, Armin, I—”

“No, I know you are not interested in him,” Armin cuts in, and smiles, a real one this time, and he places his hands on Eren’s cheeks. He knows that his charge holds no feelings for the tall blond, he knows it all, but still, a lingering ache pierces his heart every time he sees the general seeks Eren’s attention, and not his own—Armin will never say it to Eren, though, he values his friendship more than a trifle thing that he calls petty envy. “I know, because you are deeply wrapped around the snares of the emperor to care about anyone else.”

“Is it that obvious?” Eren stammers, his eyes wide and his mouth going dry, and Armin laughs and pats his cheek.

“Of course it is,” Armin giggles. “There’s this light step you make every time he is with you—a habit that you seemed to have picked up from one of the courtesans recently. Oh, speaking of which, did you know that some of them are plotting against you? Because you have stolen their precious emperor away from them.”

Eren raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms, unfazed. He taps his foot, irate, “And I should care about this because, why…?” The snap in his voice is evident, and Armin doesn’t blame him. The blond scratches his head and smiles sheepishly. Looking at Eren’s determined stare, however, makes him sigh.

“Because you are their target, Eren. You are the apple of the emperor’s eye, and you know what will happen if he catches wind of this.”

“He’ll go berserk,” Eren says flatly, flicking at some unseen dirt on his nails with nonchalance. “And I think that is actually a good thing, isn’t it? They hurt me, he goes berserk, he kills them, I get him all to myself, end of story.” And Eren beams widely at his spoken thoughts, ignoring Armin’s blatantly gaping mouth.

“I don’t think that’s the greatest plan of all time, Eren,” the blond breathes out, shaking his head as he feels his face grow cold.

The courtesan waves his hand dismissively, smirking at the worried servant, “Never mind that. If the time is right, then it will happen. Until then, I will enjoy everything that this land has to offer to someone from Tiger land.” He smiles at Armin’s uncertain façade, and he pats him on the back, “And don’t worry about the general. I have no plans of taking him away from you. Or from Lady Hange. He is not my target, after all.”

Everything falls silent, and Armin gasps, and hastily goes over to the latched doors. He unlocks it and peeks outside, stealthily looking out for people who may pass by. Seeing none, he hurriedly locks the doors back and returns to a confused Eren, and the blond shakes him with icy hands.

“Eren, think of what you will do to yourself. Do you really think you could do this? That’s like asking for an early death!” he whispers harshly with wide, pleading eyes. Eren merely laughs it off, and Armin whines and stomps his feet in exasperation. “Eren, listen to me—!” and the courtesan laughs louder, clutching his sides and crouching with each breathless gasp of hilarity. Armin stares at Eren with a pensive expression, and sighs as he lets out a frustrated cry. “Eren, you are a fool to do such a thing,” he resignedly mumbles.

Eren’s laughter slowly recedes, and he catches his breath, leaving a sated smile on his lips as he looks up at Armin. “I am a fool, am I not? Loving him, yet hating him. Wanting him to live and wanting him to die. I’m stupid, and I have long abandoned my senses since he had taken me under his façade of what he calls ‘care’. Armin, do you think I should continue this?”

“Let him live? Or let him die? Why do you want to kill him so much, anyway?”

“He stole my life. My family. My country. I _loathe_ him.”

“And yet you love him to no end.”

There is a pregnant pause in the air, one that makes their throats itch to say something, _anything_ , to break the stifling silence.

And then—

“I have fallen for the cruelest man alive, have I not,” Eren laments with a humorless laugh, hiding his face from Armin and wiping away a tear from his eye.

“Yes, you have.”

The blond kneels and embraces the now hiccupping young man, and Armin lets Eren’s soundless tears fall on his shoulders.

There is no bite in those three words, and Eren knows of it. They simply stay there in silence, with Eren both calmly crying and idly listening to the faint footsteps and the occasional thumping of the guards’ boots pacing in front of the courtesan’s room.

It is long before Armin hears the telltale feeling of Eren’s even breathing, the lulling rise and fall of his chest, and the small, incoherent mumbles of Levi’s name leaving his lips.

Armin stifles a laugh and pats the sleeping courtesan’s head, and thinks of what to make their situation now. He sighs and yawns and cradles Eren’s head to the crook of his neck, and words not meant to be heard slip from Armin’s smiling lips, his face holding that of a steady contentment, of a silent happiness—

—of blossoming and aching acceptance.

“He’ll never look at me the way he does to you. A budding figure you will be to the general’s eyes, I just know it. You will never return his sentiments, I just know. I will give him up in a heartbeat for you, Eren—just as the same as the emperor is willing to give up everything for you. Because you are the greatest friend I could ever have.”

Armin holds the courtesan tighter in his arms, and in his moment of weakness, he, too, lets a tear roll down his cheek.

“ _I’d give up everything to have you safe, even if it means killing my own safety for yours._ ”

* * *

Days pass by, and General Erwin continues to seek Eren’s help in battle. The courtesan’s tactics has felled the outskirts of Rose country, and he continues to do so for the following days—months.

Soon after, a full-blown war has erupted between Eagle and Rose, and later on, Eren has become a constant by the general’s side, the courtesan often giving suggestions and tactics that will help turn the tide to their favor.

“We will give them the double envelopment—trap them all within our grasp and give them little to no chance to escape. From a distance behind the enemy, all soldiers lurking in the bunk will form the wedge to trap them in encirclement. Their current soldiers are 150,000 greater than our men,” explains a smiling Eren to the emperor and the general one day, and the ruler, who has already formed a trust with Eren in matters of the war, asks a question that everyone in the room knows of the answer.

“And how do you suppose we defeat them in numbers?” Emperor Levi asks with a little smirk.

Eren leers and covers his mouth with his sleeves, and replies with a question, “Why, Your Highness, have you heard of the story of the brave man Gideon and his 300 soldiers? How they have defeated 135,000 soldiers with the help of acoustic warfare?”

The room stands in silence as they look at the widening simper on Eren’s bewitching lips, his eyes glinting in the most startling shade of melded blue and green.

Emperor Levi slowly comes to share his growing smirk, and he answers with a rumble of a chuckle.

“We will kill all of their soldiers camping out in the still of the night—throw them into confusion with an uproar and false commotion. That will grant us victory.”

Eren shows him a toothy, lopsided smile, one that he uses to enrapture anyone that he wants to his every beck and call.

A minister chews on his lip, glances at the emperor, and looks at Eren with a smile, “Lad, how old are you?”

The courtesan’s brow raises, and he graces him with the same lopsided smile and a coy voice, “Why, I am of 17 years, good sir.”

Hushed whispers erupted in the room, and the minister clears his throat, surprised by Eren’s answer, “Well, we of the court have been having this little discussion about you recently, why do you know so much of the war tactics when you were a merchant?”

Eren’s smile falters the slightest, and he opens his mouth to speak, only to be cut off by a snap retort from the emperor.

“He is originally from Tiger land, everyone knows that. And everyone in Tiger land, regardless of gender or age, knows everything about war. The country started out small, with only farmers tilling the barren lands, and soon became under the rule of a man filled with wisdom, so I’ve heard. Emperor Pixis, his name was. He carved the few people of the barren country into tacticians, and when the population was enough to claim to more land, the small country of 10,000 soon became 500,000. He inculcated all the knowledge about war to all of Tiger’s inhabitants—it is to give them defenses more ahead than the other countries, so no citizen of theirs would be unstudied and imbecilic. Tiger’s former inhabitants are naturally exceptionally intelligent, I must say, and that was the reason I had my eyes on it in the first place. Tiger was a land brimming with knowledge. One that I stole from them. And in my greed, I got what I wanted in the end.”

“And you are proud of it, yes?” Eren quips, his voice raising a note too high, and the emperor replies with a chuckle and a little smirk, and graces the courtesan with a handsome face—one that Eren tries not to blush from.

“Why, of course I am, you are my favored Jewel, are you not?”

Eren falls silent, stunned, and stammers throughout the muffled snickering from the amused general. The ministers awkwardly shuffle in their seats, all of them sensing the tension hanging over their heads. The meeting ends with a stifling air, and the emperor leaves with a victorious smirk, with a blabbering mess of Eren hastily following him from behind.

A few days after their plans have been worked out, Eagle country soon plummets half of Rose country’s defenses to dust, leaving half of Rose’s residents under Eagle’s control.

And Eren sees through it all from the highest point of the palace. Sees the pain and anguish being ripped from him time and again as the events plague his mind with his own calamity in what seemed to him eons ago.

The winds pick up, and he shivers with a sigh as the breeze meets his exposed shoulders. The silks adorning his frame do little to shield him from the biting air, and he hugs himself, his one hand stroking his neck as his other wraps around his waist.

A heavy weight from the inside of his sleeve makes his blood run colder than the winds. The slick metal concealed in ebony wood of a sheath lies flat against Eren’s sleeves—sleeping, waiting for its moment to be released from its scabbard and be unleashed on blade against flesh.

Tanned fingers gingerly smooth out the vague details of the dagger’s casing through his robes, and as odd as it is, it makes him calm one moment, and agitated the next. Armin, who has been standing by him the whole time, notices his unease, but says nothing of it, and opts to observe his charge with a passive face.

Bile sits in Eren’s throat at the thought of what things he might do to the Eagle ruler, but—

A small, but firm hand then rests on his shoulder abruptly, it is soft and warm to the touch, and Eren, despite being surprised at the gesture, is grateful for it, and he turns around to see an apathetic Emperor Levi looking at him with his usual steel-gray gaze.

“You are thinking too much again, I can tell,” the emperor casually says, his voice mellows in a whisper as he glances beside him, to where his guards eye him (and Eren) with their ever-passive expression.

“Am I that obvious?” Eren then laughs, a forced one, the emperor is sure, and he turns to him fully with a knowing smile. “I must admit, though. I am a bit nervous. Why can’t it be you who will lead the battle?”

The emperor shrugs, a small simper painting his lips as he looks at the busy people from the spacious terrace, “Because I need to be here in case the country falls.” He walks over to a large column and nods to himself, looking at the bumbling people with a hardened stare. He glances back at the courtesan, and frowns when he sees his exposed back and shoulders are still turned to him. He looks away with a wistful sigh, and a smile leaves his lips as he goes over to him and embraces the quivering Eren from behind.

For a moment, he thinks that the graze of the emperor’s fingers on his skin will give his carefully crafted lie away. He thinks that those digits might have touched the tiniest bit of the dagger’s concealed existence under his lush robes.

He gulps, and he waits for it. The courtesan stiffens and dares not to breathe as a whispered utterance haunts his ears—

“Eren, the country always dies with its ruler.”

Just like that, Eren isn’t sure if Emperor Levi knows anything about his treasonous plans at all.

And Eren’s heart stops as he hears General Erwin come up to them, calling the courtesan over to the doors of the royal palace for his grandest mission from Eagle land yet—

—of ruling an army of his own.

Armin’s eyes follow the courtesan’s speechless face and he follows them obediently. Eren whips his head around with dizziness, from what, he doesn’t know. All he understands is the fact that standing before him is a large group of people, some of them holding the insignia of Eagle land aloft with their flags dancing under the brightness of the sun.

Eren’s eyes widen, and his breath hitches at the sight of seeing the soldiers saluting to him, to the former merchant turned lowly courtesan that has been worming his way through Eagle’s heart in a short matter of time.

“All hail the Colonel General of Eagle!” General Erwin commands with a resounding shout that shakes Eren to the very core.

And all the soldiers kneel and bow to him—200,000 men in all.

The courtesan’s mouth falls agape, and he turns to the emperor, who has been looking at him with a proud smirk and a trusting pair of silver eyes.

Eren falls speechless, and the ruler laughs at the courtesan’s reaction, as though he has been expecting it for quite some time. The emperor outstretches his hand to the kneeling soldiers with the same pleased smile, and he purrs in Eren’s ear.

“They are all yours, at your every command. Two hundred thousand soldiers honed and trained by Erwin himself since his early years as a soldier, the greatest that you will ever have—all of them will hang onto every word that will come from your pretty lips,” the silky voice lets out in his ear—and Eren’s mind goes blank, completely at a loss of what to do.

The emperor’s hand clasps Eren’s, and a whispered promise slithers to his ear once more, one that is enough to make Eren’s body run rampant and wild in liquid flames and coiling heat—

“What is mine will now be yours. My kingdom will be your kingdom— _I will serve you just as how you are serving me._ ”

The courtesan feels his mouth run dry, and feels his knees going to stumble any minute. He looks at the kneeling soldiers once more, and in elation, he realizes what he has just achieved—

—an army he can call his own—

—an army he can use for the country’s, and for his personal gain—

He loves him with a burning passion, still—that very same burning passion is what keeps him screaming in his head, to loathe him and adore him with his ever-fickle heart.

Eren’s heart flips into a tumultuous tempest—and he sees the power that he is truly capable of—

—of burning down the man whose real kingdom lies in a heart trapped within a fortress.

* * *

  _And soon gave the courtesan an army that arose_

* * *

 


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

_Unaware little ruler then gave his all_

* * *

It has been two years since Eren had been taken under Eagle land’s wing, and even if he hated the country, its ruler can never be truly hated by him.

He contemplates about it all—if he should continue or abandon his mission of killing the emperor. But then he remembers it all—the way his family had been brutally killed by Eagle’s soldiers, the way they pillaged his land leaving nothing but ashes and agony in its wake, the way they had stolen everything from him.

He never really wanted to be like this—becoming a Colonel General of the army and at the same time, selling his body to the rich, that is. He originally wanted to have a calling of his own, make his family proud, contribute to his country in any way that he could—but _no_. Everything had been cruelly ripped from his then shredded and bound hands, and he cannot do anything to stop it—

—until now.

He scans his area with a critical eye, glances at Armin, and sighs as he looks back at the pond he has been playing on. His bare feet swirl in the water, making the fish scamper away. The small yet heavy weight sits inside Eren’s sleeve, its presence now a familiar solace in his times of turmoil. He idly thumbs the wooden case through his robe, feels the coldness of his fingers seep through the warmth in his clothes, and his eyes hastily dart about, extremely aware of his surroundings. With a heavy breath, he pulls out the sheathed dagger from his robe and twirls the golden blade in his cold palm. It lies as a dead weight on his hand—intricate, fatal, and by all means something that should make Eren run for the hills and beg the former ruler of Tiger to take his life instead of taking another one’s life. But _no_.

He watches the handle gleam under the rays of the sun. He unsheathes the blade the tiniest bit, and sees it shine on his wide eyes—and he blankly smiles.

The hushed yet hurried steps of a meekly whispering Armin snaps Eren out of his trance immediately, and he quickly shoves the blade back to its sheath, and he puts it back to his sleeve, just enough time to compose himself before being seen by a smiling General Erwin—

“Ah, good day, Eren. I see you are enjoying yourself there,” greets the blond, and Eren titters as he casually stands up and deliberately exposes his legs, making sure to catch the attention of the general.

It doesn’t fail him, as he expected.

The flash of sky blue turns a tad darker in the blink of an eye, and Eren, ever sharp, doesn’t miss the slight change in the general’s façade. The courtesan smirks at the blond, and says nothing as he bows and shows him a less decent amount of his shoulders and chest—

—Armin notices it, and merely holds back a sigh at his charge’s antics. He has already been used to it too many times to count—and he knows that sly, little Eren is up to something not good.

Erwin sees the courtesan’s coy smile, and he returns it with a smirk of his own. The blond man’s lips part as the tanned man moves his limbs fluidly, his damp feet slipping onto the slippers with a smooth glide. Enchanting, the brunet’s moves are, and the general’s breath hitches as Eren’s fingers brush on his shoulders.

“You know exactly what you are doing,” the general observes with a hiss and a gasp.

“Ah,” Eren coos, gracing him with a cheeky smile and a giggle, “so you are aware. You see, I’ve been thinking lately—why me? Why does it have to be me who should lead the army that you so worked hard on? I know you once said to me that I have potential to be a soldier, but still…”

And the tall blond chuckles at the seemingly innocent young man, “If you want me to put it bluntly, it is because you have a flame burning within you—one that cannot be exhumed. It is a flame wilder than any other I’ve seen, so much that it rivals his own.”

“Ah, you mean Levi?”

The way he has said the emperor’s name sends Erwin laughing, and he glances at the pond, sees a pair of fishes pecking and swimming away, and he playfully bites his lip—

—one that Eren doesn’t miss. His brows raise, and a soundless chortle leaves his lips.

“You are now on intimate terms with him, yes?” the general asks, and Eren grunts out a response, crossing his arms, looking a bit peeved at the question.

“You have seen it before, how intimate we were in my room. Why the need to emphasize it more?”

Erwin guffaws loud enough to make some of the nearby servants look at him with a double take and an awkward smile and a bow. Eren looks at him with curious eyes and a quiet smile, and Armin, ever meek, simply gazes at him with curiosity. A few moments pass, and seeing that neither of them is going to speak, Erwin chews on his inner cheek and glances away from them with a toothy grin, and darts his eyes back to Eren, his blue eyes looking a tad larger than what Eren has seen earlier.

“I have my reasons,” Erwin vaguely quips, and he notices the Eren glancing at Armin, the two of them shrugging, and the general squares his shoulders with a sigh and a wide beam. “Say, is it all right if I were to have an audience with you and the emperor?”

Eren blinks, and cranes his neck to look at Armin, who shrugs, and Eren returns the gesture; he looks at the general with the same toothy grin and a playful cock of his head. “Well, I see no harm in it, so why not?” And the general’s eyes smile at him, and Eren swears he sees those baby blues shine in a dangerous glint that he can only see as one thing.

Eren leads their way to the emperor’s quarters, and Erwin follows—

—and Armin, ever silent and observant Armin, sees Erwin frown the second Eren has turned his back, those calculating, blue eyes quickly darting over to the courtesan’s left arm.

Armin then feels his blood run cold as Erwin slowly smirks at Eren’s walking form.

* * *

The courtesan languidly sits sideways on the emperor’s lap, whose small yet strong form perches on his lofty throne, and before them stands a stoic general, whose expression hasn’t changed the moment he has uttered his request to the ruler.

“You want us to do what with you for what?” the emperor furrows his brows as he tries to comprehend Erwin’s outlandish wish, his mouth gaping as he looks at the man incredulously. “Has swinging your sword in the battlefield for eleven years finally gone to your head? What about your wife? What will she say about this? Erwin, I know that after a long time, you managed to convince me to give Eren authority in the fields of war, but this is another—a completely—different matter—!”

“And that is why I am asking you for your explicit permission—and Eren’s, of course, if it is all right with him.”

The emperor’s head snaps to Eren’s inquisitive and oddly amused expression, and right before the courtesan can even speak, the ruler cuts him off with a stern, “No. Absolutely not. Erwin, do you even know what you are trying to do and—”

“It’s fine with me.”

The general and the emperor crack their heads to the nonchalantly shrugging and smiling courtesan, and Eren lifts up and exposes his leg, showing it off to the two men in the room. “I am always open for suggestions,” he jokes, and in a split second, his face turns grim, the cheeky smile from his face gone in a millisecond, “but the general surely is an odd piece. Why the sudden urge to have me in your arsenal? Surely you know what I am referring to.” Eren’s brow levitates and he smirks at the stoic general, “You have a lovely wife waiting for you every day. She has been going to your quarters almost every day, and then you suddenly, subtly, imply us that you are growing weary of your love. General, what is it that you seek?”

The emperor’s eyes dart to the general’s, and there, he sees something that is not usually present in the man’s stance. He side-glances at Eren—

“Ah, you have caught me,” Erwin sighs out with his usual cryptic smile, his palms face outward as he relaxes in his posture. “I am—merely seeking for an adventurous side of things,” he smirks, and Eren’s face falls.

“Why not seek the company of others, if you truly want to fool around behind your beloved wife’s back—?”

“Because I desire you.”

All words about to slip from Eren’s lips fly from his mind the moment he hears Erwin’s declaration. The courtesan’s jaw slackens, his teal eyes large and wide, and he splutters nonsense—and he jolts in shock as the sound of a fist bangs on the wooden armrest.

The emperor bares and gnashes his teeth at Erwin’s words, his bored, silver eyes now slitted in fuming anger. “I won’t let you touch him. I thought I have already made that crystal clear enough that day when I—”

Erwin snorts and smirks, and the emperor growls at the defiance of it all.

“And now I want to have a taste of this treasure you so keep heavily guarded under lock and key—”

The door to the throne room opens, and there stands Petra in her flowing robes, and a tanned, brown-haired woman decked in a silver armor.

The brunette stands tall as she walks down the room, her eyes squinting very hard, and she heavily glares at a certain someone.

Petra casually crosses her arms with a small simper, and the emperor and the courtesan merely stick up their noses as they hear a loud and resounding _slap_.

From the ruler’s lap, Eren sneers and quietly whispers to himself, quite amused by it all—“Serves you right.”

Silver eyes observe the madly grinning courtesan, and he says nothing as the armor-clad woman shrieks profanities at the General of the Armies—

“You told me I will be the only one who you will always bed! H-how could you—!” The woman stomps, her ponytailed hair bouncing about as she growls at Erwin’s shocked face—

“Hange—”

“Don’t you ‘Hange’ me! I heard everything you just said, I was just outside.” Hange points furiously at the doors, her anger bubbling at the low and hissed words slithering from her mouth, “I just wanted to visit you today since I was in the area and Petra told me you were here, and what do I get, you betraying me.”

Emperor Levi props his hand on his chin as he watches the display with growing disinterest.

From out of the corner of his eye, he sees Eren looking at the quarreling couple with something akin to that of determination, a far cry from his expression moments ago. Determination for what, the emperor doesn’t know.

* * *

“Something is wrong with him,” Eren repeats for the umpteenth time since he has entered his room. Pacing with agitation at the oddness of it all, he gnaws on his thumb as he stares blankly at the floor. Armin, ever worried, tries to calm him down with words that don’t seem to reach the courtesan’s ear.

Eren continues to pace, nonetheless, the sweat from his palms getting colder and colder as his breaths come in shallow puffs—

“Armin, have you noticed something odd earlier?” Eren’s eyes flit to the aforementioned servant, and blue eyes blink, recalling things the best that he can and then—

“I have, and I had found it quite odd, indeed—the way he frowned and looked at you with a strange glint in his eye when you turned your back on him and led the way to the emperor’s room. Frankly, the way he smirked at you when he looked at your hand made my blood run cold—in fear, I suppose…? His gestures were quite peculiar, too,” Armin taps his index on his jaw, looking at somewhere and nowhere at all. “As though he is purposely trying to—should I say this—all I can read from him is he is trying to seduce you.”

Eren snorts sardonically and crosses his arms as he rolls his eyes, “And he still fails.”

“Did he really?”

Eren frowns at Armin’s tone—a cross of bitterness passes over the servant’s face, and the courtesan reassures him that nothing of the sort will ever happen, but—

“You are capricious, a bit too capricious at times. What if you end up slipping up to the general and you spill everything and—” the worried blond stammers and clutches his golden locks in a frantic frenzy, and it takes all of Eren’s thin patience not to smack him upside the head for—

“You’re thinking too much. That is why I noticed something was wrong in the first place. Besides, the timing of the wife’s arrival was a bit too…” Eren gestures his arms, waves them about, and ends up shrugging in the end. Armin also agrees, and he gulps as he breathes out his words—

“‘Suspicious’, am I right?”

Eren falls silent, and gravely nods.

* * *

The wrath of wars fall into pieces left and right, bathing nations in fatigue and outcry and agony—but not Eagle land.

The land of Eagle remains soaring among a battle too many, slaying enemy countries and states with each slash of its bloody swords—all because of its ruler and its subordinates.

“Rose is now hanging on a thread, Your Highness,” General Erwin calmly states to the emperor sprawling languidly on the gaudy throne. The kneeling blond hears the ruler scoff, something he has been doing lately for the past few days since Hange has bursted out her anger.

Something clearly troubles the emperor, this fight that had happened between the two of his most trusted people—

“What are you planning, Erwin?” the ruler asks without looking at him. Argent eyes dart at his own bare feet, twiddling his toes as he waits for a response—a sigh, a word of reassurance that he will not bring harm to the teal-eyed teen, _anything_. He waits, and hears nothing from the man kneeling in front of him. Nothing, but the telltale, hidden smile on Erwin’s lips when he slides his silver eyes to sky-blue ones.

“I am merely making a gamble, Levi. Something I am quite sure you are used to seeing me do.”

The passiveness from Levi’s face doesn’t leave, “Gambling on what.”

Blue eyes dart to gray ones, and the blond sees the ruler’s shoulders tense up just the slightest. Erwin stares at him—calculating as always, and the smaller man furrows his brows—

“There is a spy within our country—within our ranks, to put it bluntly.”

A faint thud reaches Erwin’s ears, and small, bare feet patter roughly on the carpeted floor as his chin is jerked forcibly with a fragile-looking foot towards a seething and imposing Levi.

“Who. Who is this spy that dares to interfere my kingdom? Never in my eleven years of ruling over have I heard of such news as this one. Erwin, have you finally failed in using your dirty tactics to those you trample on?”

“If I tell you now, will you be happy, I wonder…”

“Stop riddling me and _say_ it.”

The small, but forceful foot grinds harder on Erwin’s cheek and neck, but the general holds a cryptic smile in place, completely unfazed at the murderous look being sent to him.

“It is someone you hold dear, that I am sure—how to capture them, though, that I am still planning on,” Erwin pauses and laughs at the fear spreading on that pallid face. “Will you be willing to defy and slaughter someone you hold truly dear to your cold and fickle heart? Or will you let your country scream and burn to dying ashes, just like what you told me before?”

And in the emperor’s stunned silence, Erwin laughs and finds his answer—

—and Levi fears the consequences of his unspoken reply.

* * *

A happily humming Hange removes her armor and places it on a stand by her bed, admiring the way it glistens when the light hits its splendor. A beautiful armor, it is, and a very special one, at that—for it had been made especially for her by none other than—

“Erwin, come in. I know you’re there,” she smiles with her arms akimbo, her happy eyes still admiring her armor. She hears a distinct chuckle from outside, that, and the sound of the doors opening and closing.

“I still don’t know how you can detect me even without seeing me.”

In turn, Hange guffaws, her laughs bouncing off the walls and the pillars of their modest but impeccable room. “You are my husband, of course. I always know where you are, even if I can’t see you when you are a few feet away from me—” she squints, and points to her eyes, “—literally.” She declares it proudly with a wide grin and a hand on her jutting hip. Erwin sighs with a smile and side-hugs his wife. She giggles, and releases herself from his hug as she bounces in front of him with sparkling eyes and frothing excitement.

“So? How was it? How was my performance last week? Did Levi buy it? Did Eren buy it? Did I look convincing enough? Does your cheek still hurt from me slapping you with the hand that has my wedding band? Shall I do it again in front of them to make it look more convincing? Or should I punch you in your handsome face and destroy it next time? Huh, huh?”

Erwin laughs, and pats Hange on the head, and he praises her, sending the woman in a fit of screeches and giggles. She stops for a second, however, when her husband comments idly, “No, you don’t have to slap, or punch, me again. Last time—that was uncalled for—” And his wife hunches over and slaps her thighs with hee-haw laughs. He ignores her, “—and it still hurts. Why do I get the feeling that you like what you just did last week very much…?”

Hange squeals and shakily points her bent index at Erwin’s resigned face with tears brimming from the corners of her eyes, her words becoming a jumbled mess as she sees the general’s still slightly swollen left cheek, all due to her slapping him.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Erwin sighs through Hange’s hysterical laughing fit. He waits for her seemingly endless amusement to stop, and when it does, he smiles at her. She returns the gesture, one cockier than his own.

“You never told me what your real plan is. What are you trying to aim?”

“To take hold of the spy that plans to ruin the country, what else is there?”

It is a rhetorical question that hangs from his lips, and Hange, ever sharp and meticulous, circles her husband with amusement. She smacks her lips, pursing them, and she peers at him from behind, standing on her tiptoes as she does so. “Sometimes I wonder, since you have brought up the topic a few days ago—if your tendency to go polyamorous with both Levi and Eren runs as high as your desire to get all lands for the little guy.”

“Do you want me to be? Is this your way of telling me you don’t mind?” he asks, craning his neck with a little crooked smile. He sees her shrug nonchalantly, and he is, frankly, not surprised by her too calm reply.

Once again, she shrugs with the same carefree smile, wagging her eyebrows at her husband with a showy display of teeth. “As long as I get to have the next strategy under my control.”

An upturn quirk of his lips, and his eyes crinkle at her. “A benefit for you, I know. Another crazy strategy of yours, I assume?”

And Hange places a hand on her chest, gasping in mock shock, “You wound me, Erwin. I have no such thing as a crazy strategy. A crazy mind, yes, but a crazy strategy? Oh, _no_. But.” She twirls around, giggling, and she eyes her husband with mischief shining in her brown eyes, “Someday I want to lead the army with Eren in tow—he’ll make a great General in the future—” And she starts to cackle, one that Erwin can only place as something bordering into dangerous territory.

She looms closer to her husband, standing on her tiptoes with a grin that shows all of her pearly whites.

“I know something big will happen if you continue this—” she bites her lip in anticipation, her brows raising higher as her eyes widen with something akin to excitement, “—this wonderful plan you will do. And once you have gotten to that point. Erwin, trust me, there will be no returning to who you once were. Not that I mind, that is. But the question is, once you know who is the traitor, will you be another Levi as well?”

* * *

Battles have been coming and going for the past few months, leading every nearby state crumbling to the Eagle’s feet. Soon, the country of Rose will succumb to the claws of the Eagle emperor, but for now, there comes a great day of rest—

—as Eren throws his head back with a wanton cry to the dark heavens, taking in every slap and grunt and thrust and breath of pleasure the man beneath him offers.

Behind him, a silent but attentive Erwin agonizingly palms his steadily leaking cock, panting as he watches the emperor and the courtesan throw themselves in the hear of passion. They have sought nothing but each other’s company in the wee hours of the night; spending every second being bathed in lean and toned flesh and sweat and cries for heated lust. Fingers have wrapped themselves on matted locks, eliciting cries for more of the savage touch. Quivering palms have scourged reddening skin, alternating between caressing and striking their plump mounds of flesh. Trimmed nails paw and scratch at wide backs and shoulders and arms and buttocks. Mouths, lips, and tongues slither over the expanse of their bodies, all tasting the luscious nectar of hedonism spilling from their selves.

A cry that reaches the walls of the room signals the blond to finally enter the tanned male, and Eren pants and gives a sated and openmouthed smile as the two men slowly plunge deep inside the courtesan, searching for a rhythm that will make their heads spin in ecstasy. Showers of grunts and moans bathed in both pain and pleasure rip through their bruised lips and battered voices as they move in complete synchronization. Two pairs of teeth nip and bite the heaving courtesan’s already reddened neck, their tongues serving as a makeshift balm to ease the prickling, gratifying pain settling there. The courtesan dances sinfully in between them—swiveling and grinding his hips quickly and slowly and stopping altogether as he feels their maddening peaks coming—and Eren will restart his rave all over again. Quick, quick, slow, stop. Quick, quick, slow, stop.

At one point, Erwin, in his pleasurable frustration, rams deep inside the keening courtesan, making the emperor throw his head back and cry out for a harsh round of _more_. The blond does so once more, and Levi retaliates by circling his hips, angling for Eren’s prostate and searching for Erwin’s leaking tip. The blue-eyed man bites back a groan, and the three of them then share an obscene and noisy round of kisses, with Eren craning his head to accommodate Erwin’s lips, and Levi sitting up to join in with the two.

And Erwin and Levi see stars when Eren dives harder than ever, clamping his insides around the two, wiggling his hips with a heartfelt giggle, and he bounces faster as the dance reaches its climax—

—and staccato sobs start to reverberate deliciously from Eren’s open mouth. And this continues on—in, out, in, out—until—

—heaven lurches its final cry. And all three are waned and sated.

The three of them have been dying the walls of the palace a shade of the darkest rouge from night till the rise of the sun, and they fall into deep sleep the moment the rooster croaks its awakening.

It is now the beginning of a new day, and the general is roused from his sleep by the heavy footfalls of the soldiers guarding the room of the emperor.

It is a one-time occurrence, Erwin repeats to himself time and again as he turns over from his side. He props his elbow and balances himself on one hand as he observes the sleeping forms of the two men lying beside him with the most peaceful expressions on their faces he has ever seen them in. He gazes at the pale skin of the emperor, the tanned canvas of the lovely courtesan—and the blue-eyed general admires it all with an awe that frightens him from inside out.

He looks at their glistening skins, the two looking thoroughly debauched from their activities last night, and Erwin’s jaw tenses as the devil inside his head whispers to do it once more.

The telltale marks littered all over their flesh do nothing to ease his hammering thoughts.

It may—it will—be something that he might— _will_ —crave, if he chooses not to stop now. A raging conflict starts to emerge from the confines of his chained mind, something that he has not the heart to stop from seeping into his waking consciousness and into his habits and every fiber of his being and—

Erwin gulps as he caresses the silky, auburn strands of the slumbering, teal-eyed man.

And just like that, he knows he’s now done for.

How he had managed to convince Levi to bed him and Eren, he had the faintest of memories. Fogged with the ambrosia of liqueur and drunk in the heat of each other’s company last night, Erwin had been sure that at one point, a slur reply from Levi, and a playful shake of hips from Eren, had been his signal to give it a go with the two capricious men.

In the long run, he has not the slightest bit of remorse for the rapid turn of events.

He has been captivated by this creature of the darkest of nights and the brightest of suns—leisurely, unknowingly, unsuspectingly and completely unaware of the secret phantom lurking behind the coy smiles and the fluttering beryl eyes and languid gestures of spidery hands and feet sculpted by the most beautiful of russets.

He has also been captivated by the beauty of the enigmatic, silver moon—eternally waning and finicky in its silent presence. Like the mysterious sparkle of an aurora hiding behind the blanket of clouds, he has been enslaved to its spark of giving life to the otherwise black night sky, constantly craving for a hint of a touch from the coldness of it—

—a stark contrast from the burn of the sun made from the brightest of teal.

—Erwin has now been trapped within the palms of two, devilishly charismatic men, and he has not a single thought of how to stop his slowly spiraling madness of desire for the two fiends in their own right.

One coy yet sly. One haughty yet submissive.

He stretches his arms overhead, and feels his muscles creaking as he moves and stands to reach out to his garments that have been discarded on the floor with no remorse.

Six robes are scattered all over the plush rug, each for the three of them are two.

Erwin walks over and places all of the robes at the foot of the large bed—

—a dull thunk then hits the floor as he folds one of the four robes littered about, hardly hitting Erwin’s bare foot in the process.

Blue eyes glance at his feet, and on the odd, little object that has fallen from one of the robes. He hums and picks it up, surprised to see that it is heavy in his palm. He turns it this way and that, curious of the intricate carvings on the oblong-shaped object. He sees a little indent in the middle of it, and he presses it with his thumb and pulls it apart, and finds that it is a sheathe—

—and the inside is made of nothing but ebony wood, and on the expanse of it, there writes: “ _N_ _ega Tiger land eseoib—ijjima._ ”

Erwin touches the engraved words on the wood, mumbles and tastes the feel of the foreign words on his tongue, “‘I am from Tiger land—do not forget,’” and he imprints them in his mind, and in the turmoil of his now torn thoughts, a mirthless laugh escapes his lips.

“You have won this time, Hange.”

* * *

“Rose has fallen!”

Cries of cheers roar throughout the heavens that house Eagle land. The whole country is in a festive mood, and soon after, the infectious mood has spread throughout the palace, even to the eternally stoic emperor.

“Surely there will come a time when all of these useless banquets will cease. Maybe I should give a decree that such activities should stop immediately. What do you think, O Great Eagle’s Hunter? Surely these banquets have by now given you boredom since you have acclaimed such a title from the people that has now given you their complete trust? It is because of Hange that this country has not experienced a single uprising since I have ruled over. And now,” the ruler turns to the coyly smiling courtesan, “now you have given me absolute trust of the people through you. They are now in the palm of my hand, all to my liking.” Eren flutters his eyes, pouring him a glass of wine for the third time with a little smirk.

“I think the banquets should remain, Your Highness. They _do_ provide you a healthy recreation, yes? And please, a lowly courtesan such as I should not be held in high regards with the emperor.”

Silver eyes slide to teal ones, and just as one of them opens their mouth to speak, the general intervenes with his usual diplomatic and tightlipped smile. He raises a cup of wine to them, and the emperor huffs as the blond gulps down his drink in one swig.

“Come now, Levi. This is a festive event, cheer up. The people from the neighboring country is now ours. Its resources now in our hands. Truly, this is a celebration for all of us, and it is all a huge thanks to you, Eren, as well. You are not a courtesan anymore, remember that.”

The emperor throws him a sneer and a snort and dismisses Erwin’s words, “Easy for you to say that this is festive, since you don’t have a random guy sitting on you—”

Eren gasps, and moves a bit more on the emperor’s lap, just to see him squirm. “I’m _hurt_.”

“Oh, are you, now?” the ruler barks a laugh so unlike him despite the obvious discomfort on his face, and Eren almost surmises it is because of the wine in the emperor’s system, but he shakes the thought off, nonetheless.

And Eren sees Erwin smiling to him and his two-layered robes of the finest of silks. The courtesan notices the attention on him, and he showers in it with utmost glee, slipping his robes on purpose as he refills Erwin’s empty cup of wine.

Teal eyes slyly look up at him, “You speak of niceties, General. I merely wanted to aid you and the emperor in bringing down the enemy to Eagle’s feet. I hear the captured ones are on their way to the capital, yes?” The ruler and the general’s eyes meet, and Eren continues as he now glances at the pale-skinned ruler, “A splendid memory of the past, is it not? Of how you and I have met, that is.” The venom dripping from the courtesan’s voice does not fail in making the little emperor twitch, and he sees those silver eyes look away from him.

It is Erwin who tenses his jaw and speaks to the puffed up Eren, “Eren, I know that despite your life now in the palace, you are still upset—”

“‘—and forever will be—’”

“—and forever will be upset in the whole matter, and we know no bribe can ever buy you in turning away your hatred for all of Eagle land, but you know that we don’t kill the slaves for no reason, right, Eren?” and Erwin gives him a lopsided smile, to which Eren returns with a snort and a sneer.

“But then you raped my land to its fullest, killing everyone and everything that dares to move an inch.”

Erwin falls silent, and Eren smiles, a tightlipped one, and he plants a kiss on the emperor’s cheeks, and he scurries off to the ministers, serving them—

—Blue and silver eyes glance at each other, and the two of them share a silent nod.

* * *

“Isn’t it about time?” Hange gleefully asks as she paces around the emperor’s quarters, jumping for joy at the news she has heard earlier. In the room, there stands General Erwin and two ministers who are dear to the ruler. Hange twirls around and dashes back to the sober, pale man sitting upon the plush mattress. “I have been waiting for this, Levi. The day when you will finally say that you’ll have a queen!”

“You don’t have to be so brazen about yelling it—”

“Oh, but I _have_ to,” she says excitedly. “Imagine the dress he will wear. The greatest of the great, the softest of the soft—Levi, the day you will marry him will be the day to die for!”

And by now, the questions start to pile up on the emperor of Eagle. Will he be sure of his attempt to marry another man? How about the issues regarding Eren a former citizen of a foreign country? How about his fellow citizens from former Tiger land? Will they follow Eagle as their ruler? Or will they follow the one from their own kin? Will the country be divided because of the future ruler having foreign blood? How sure will he be should there come a time that a possible uprising might arise on the day of Eren’s marriage to the Eagle emperor? How about the taxes of the people? How about the plans for a future heir—

“I have not assembled all of you today to bombard me with your trifle matters of politics. I am merely here to seek your approval about me proposing to—”

“And we agree, truly! True, politics comes in first, but if you surely want everything to go down this path, I will support you with every bit of me, until you finally see the time when everything will fall in its place that politics will soon be a huge matter to all of us but this is nothing to you, right? Because you are our Levi,” Hange squeals, and hugs the emperor as tightly as she can, blatantly ignoring the insults Levi throws at her. He looks at his far right, to where a silent Erwin smiles in the dark with his gleaming, blue eyes.

And so starts the days where Levi will court and seek Eren’s attention from near and afar, lavishing him with the prettiest of clothes and the most expensive of jewels, even going as far as to give him a new slave—a female one.

But none of them matters to Eren, for he longs for only one thing, and for that one thing to return.

“I desire my family to be back. Rise them from the ashes, if you can.”

And Levi knows he cannot do what Eren wants.

So he searches his lands far and wide, seeking for people who might know Eren’s family, and when he does, he secretly meets up with them and asks them of Eren’s family’s appearances. He then quickly orders for a painter and a sketch artist to draw the courtesan’s family in complete detail.

In a matter of a week, a painting twice as large as a canopy hangs over the walls of Eren’s room—and his large, teal eyes well up in a surge of utter joy.

There, sitting in the oil canvas lies him, his father, his mother, and his adopted sister, all complete and happy and looking very much alive—as though they have always been.

“It wasn’t hard to find someone from your country who knows all of your family. You came from a merchant line, after all. After that, I—”

But Eren hears nothing of the emperor’s explanation, his mind now blank upon seeing the smiles upon his family’s faces—

“My… family… all here…” He turns, shakily, to a silently and secretly smiling Levi, and his lips quiver as he turns his gaze back to the lovely canvas, and just like that, he turns and hugs him in delight—

—and it is then and there that Eren finally says yes to the emperor.

* * *

It takes a month before a public proposal is made—something that Eren never once expected the emperor to do—and when all is said and done, the courtesan of Eagle is in stark shock, when one day, he is summoned to the balcony, and is amazed when he sees the sight of the whole nation bowing to his feet.

“It is only an engagement,” he hears Petra whisper to a smiling Armin, “imagine if this were a wedding.”

And the people of the country opens their mouths to speak, a resonating sound reaches Eren’s ears—

“Long live the emperor! Long live the empress!”

And it is there and then that wide-eyed Eren, the lowly courtesan and former merchant from Tiger land, is at a loss of what to do.

From behind him, his slave girl with platinum blond hair, looks at him with a little smile, and mouths something unknown to him. Armin glances at her curiously, and sees her bow to him, muttering.

“ _Long live Tiger’s empress._ ”

* * *

  _To a man that soon turned into a caballer_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The writing engraved on Eren’s dagger is actually me butchering the pronunciation of the Korean language. Don’t kill me. D:


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding draws nearer and nearer. Tragedy strikes.

* * *

_A stoic girl from Tiger land then soon appeared_

* * *

Whispers of naught but praise and words of naught but wishes of happiness shower Eren’s ears the moment the announcement had been made—and Eren has slowly grown tired of it all; smiling and saying nothing but endless thanks to the people who are trying to woo him. The only times when he had smiled his real smile was when his servants have greeted him with grins and bows—and Eren, then, had become soft of heart.

Armin has been cheering his charge on for quite some time since he and the courtesan had arrived in the room, proudly declaring that he will be the one to make the courtesan’s wedding dress, and Eren quickly acquiesced to the blonde’s wish—a dress made of the finest materials by Nature herself, along with the loveliest design, the colors bright and alluring to the eyes, the cut and fitting, conservative yet brazen—

Eren laughs as he listens to the servant babble on, and he idly toys with his dagger as he sits on the bed and declares that a simple dress will do just fine—

But Armin will have none of it, quickly to counter Eren’s argument with conviction as he shakes the courtesan’s shoulders. “As the future empress of the land, simplicity is not an option—not when there are people out there dying in envy and vying to have your position now. You _will_ look your best—the best of the best—on the day of your wedding! Why, for you, I will create the grandest wedding dress of them all. I will make the heavens cry out in joy upon seeing the creation I will do for you. Trust me on that.”

And Eren resigns with a sigh and a hearty laugh and a playful shake of his head. “Once you have made a decision, you will never back down from it, huh.” Armin nods, and Eren grins as he glances at the glinting, golden blade sitting on his palm.

Behind him, the servant girl of his smiles.

* * *

Emperor Levi slashes his sword on a dummy, splitting it half. From afar, Eren watches him with a critical eye, and behind him, Armin and the new slave stand by.

“Shall I announce my presence, I wonder,” Eren muses out loud with a smile, glancing at Armin with a playful wink. “Should I disturb Your Highness’s practice?”

Armin blinks, and shakes his head and blabs and flails as Eren turns away and goes over to the busy emperor with a happy skip in his step. “Your Highness,” he hears Eren yell out, and Armin sighs and scratches his head, letting Eren do as he pleases.

“I feel like I need to apologize to you in behalf of my charge that has been nothing but frisky lately,” he turns to a stern-faced woman, whose hairstyle is like his own, and has the lightest shade of blond he has ever seen on a woman. Her eyes bear the hue of silver, orbs that rival the emperor’s own. Her expression constantly reveals nothing, often looking blank and passive—and it reminds him of the emperor in some ways.

The woman says nothing, merely nods, and Armin’s smile turns a tad too fake, and she notices it, and the smallest tug on her lips slips through, and Armin blinks—the girl then speaks—

“He is the opposite, I see,” she finally comments, and he purses his lips in thought as she continues. “Quite a lovely pair they will make in the future, don’t you think?” And she cocks her head, her gesture holding a bit of openness, and Armin finally beams.

“You think so, too?” he claps in glee. “I know, right. They complement each other well. Fire and ice. Pale and bronze. Silent and outspoken. They are two of a kind.” He pauses, and looks at his charge happily avoiding the emperor’s sword attacks. “There are times when I can’t even seem to decipher what Eren’s thinking, but I surely hope that his decisions from now on will lead him to greatness.”

“I hope so, too,” the woman agrees, “he is of my own, after all.”

Armin turns, curiously peeking at the woman’s carefully-placed façade. “What do you mean by that?” he asks, and he sees her slyly smile, a dainty hand covering her lips, and her eyebrow arches, and she speaks.

“You will know soon, little one. You will know soon.”

And she bows to him, and she departs right before Armin could say—

“…I haven’t even asked your name…”

* * *

A few weeks of Erwin cooping up in their room is all that it takes for Hange to come storming in front of the door with her voice squealing in its might. She hasn’t seen a minute’s worth of him, and it is eating her out.

She furiously raps on their chamber door incessantly, and when the door opens, she is greeted by her worse for wear husband. Still, Erwin greets his wife with a winning smile of triumph despite the apparent lack of sleep creeping behind those eyes of blue, and Hange is curious to know the reason behind that tired, yet smarmy grin.

“I’ve finally cracked it. I’ve finally found out who is our little spy. And I know you, too, will also be unsurprised of the person I will speak of.”

And they talk about the spy among their ranks, how they have infiltrated Eagle land with the means of pretending to be slaves, and working their way up towards the surface where they could have positions where they could be revered and have followers of their own—

“Here,” Erwin explains, laying out a scroll filled with unfamiliar writing in front of Hange, “it explains of ‘a great rejoicing on the land of yellow and a great mourning on the land of dusk, that will occur on the twenty-fifth during the blanket of the skies, when the silver circle will grace upon the inhabited land of birds. An eye will die by the hands of gold, and will leave flames shedding ash.’ An exquisite prose, is it not?”

He watches her reaction, and sees her tilt the scroll with furrowed brows, and she hums.

“This is the writing we have found on one of the slaves we have captured, right? It looks almost like our own writing, only… Well, what does it mean?” Hange finally whines out after trying to decipher little characters of the unfamiliar tongue. “If I read this in our own, it would make no sense at all. I love riddles and all, but this one seems too hard. What is the land of yellow?”

* * *

“In a month’s time, you will be crowned as the empress of Eagle land. I’m sure the other courtesans are dying to be in your shoes,” says a grinning Armin to a flustered Eren. “Which also means that the guards in front of your room have increased. The General’s orders, I believe.”

Eren falls quiet at the mention of the general’s name, and he warily eyes his servant. “Armin—”

“I am fine about it, if that’s what you’re asking.”

And just like that, the conversation turns into a halt, and Eren gulps as he tries to continue. “But Armi—”

“I told you, Eren,” the blond finally turns with a bright smile, “I am fine. But still, be wary. The General is on to something that we don’t know of. And I find it completely unsettling.” The blond casts his eyes to the ceiling, pondering out loud, “A completely straight man with a lovely wife waiting for him every night suddenly swerves into a heated one-night stand with the greedy emperor of the country and the emperor’s precious courtesan. That greedy emperor wants the courtesan all for himself, yet he drops it at a second’s tick when wine entered his system. He is known to be someone who holds his liquor well, and not the complete opposite. Something is not ringing right.”

“Perhaps they are planning something,” pipes the servant girl out of a sudden, startling both the courtesan and the male servant. “You should keep on a lookout, future empress. Something is about to smell foul. And now that the emperor will be going away on another scavenge hunt for more land, all of us must stay alert more than ever.”

Eren gulps, and he feels his palms grow cold in nervousness at her words. “But I haven’t even done anything to warrant their anger or suspicion.”

“Are you sure?” asks the female servant, and Eren nods sternly.

The female servant stares at the beryl-eyed courtesan, and her lips thin out in thoughtfulness.

“…is that so.”

Argent eyes flit for a second too long on the courtesan’s garments, and she sharply looks away with a click of her tongue.

* * *

“He is being suspected, Your Grace.”

A forced-out hum slips past an old man’s lips, and he gulps down a flask of whisky he has been drinking.

Wiping off the excess liquor from his lips, he passes the empty flask to the kneeling woman on the ground. She begrudgingly takes it, and the old man stands up and pops his joints. Sighing, he smiles and looks at the furrow-browed woman.

“Stand up.” She does. “Gather the men. Young and old—”

He laughs, and the woman does not know why. Only the words slipping past his lips are her order, and she follows—

“There will be a grand banquet in the land of freedom, and we will join him in celebration.” He turns a mirthful eye towards the passive-faced woman, and he grins.

“He is of our own, after all—right?”

* * *

It happened just a few days after the announcement of the upcoming wedding.

A growing tension fills the nobles’ hearts as days pass by. Word has leaked into the palace about a possible spy that has crept inside the Eagle kingdom. A sense of heightened awareness and suspicion rises from the ranks. Servants and soldiers alike shift a wary eye every now and then, eternally asking their selves who is the person that seeks destruction of their kingdom.

From the meeting hall, a fist bangs on the table, and the startled ministers glance at a grinning, armor-clad Hange with fear. The general is with her today, and surprisingly, the emperor, is not.

She calls for their undivided attention, and when everyone is settled down, she then takes out a scroll showing a picture of a sheath. She asks them if anyone has seen the contents of such a sheath—a golden one—and no one answers. She tells them it contains a small thing, only of wood, with an unfamiliar inscription. And she shows them another scroll, this time, only with the writing in question. The ministers ask her of what it is, and she briefly glances at Erwin, who merely shrugs. And she huffs and speaks of the sheath—how it has been accidentally discovered by Erwin, how it belongs to one of the people in the palace, and how the writing came to be.

“This is writing here is from a distant land. A land that we have recently conquered. See this? This is one of the messages that house our kingdom! And sadly,” she glances at her husband once more, her eyes narrowing the slightest, and she directs her attention back to the ministers, “our dear General here cannot comprehend the letters. Yet.” She pauses, long and thoughtful as she observes the slew of reactions from the ministers’ faces, and she breathes, “This distant land has become quite dear to us, for it is now one of the 34 lands that make up our kingdom.”

Murmurs and slowly building uproar ring out in the room, and Hange slams her fist on the wooden table once more.

Silence settles in, and she speaks.

“Of the 34 lands, the writings indicated in this sheath share the same distinct appearance to those of these former countries—” and she takes out another scroll, clears her throat, blinks twice, and reads out aloud with a shaky voice that brings unease to the people in the room. “Humaine.” Gasps are heard, and some eyes slide to the minister sitting nearest to Hange, their eyes wide and fingers at the ready to point out a culprit. She ignores them. “Schwert.”

A minister cries out, slamming his fist on the table with a finger pointed at the Major, “Blasphemy! I am no spy!”

“No one says you are, Minister of Left. But then again—” General Erwin says coolly, and the aforementioned swallows the lump from his throat and huffs back into his seat, his face red from both anger and embarrassment—

A shattering cry pierces the room as Erwin’s blade thrusts into the minister’s neck in one, swift strike.

“—why the sudden reaction that you are a spy?”

Faces pale, the ministers say nothing as Hange calmly speaks.

“Scild.”

Several pairs of eyes slide to a silent man sitting farthest on the table, and whispered grunts and accusations are made as Hange speaks, and this time, with a pained voice.

“Militaire.”

The room spins into a hushed silence, all eyes falling on both the Major and the General.

They all know that General Erwin and Major Hange were hailed from the distant land of what was once called Militaire, and the two, once they have grown enough, have travelled far into the heart of Stallion, where they have made their family business there.

“Stallion.”

“Lies!”

“Silence,” shouts Erwin, “let her speak.”

“Tiger.”

And the room crashes in an uproar.

* * *

An agitated Hange and an oddly calm Erwin walk down the halls towards their shared quarters, talking about the recent episode of the furious ministers in the main hall. She asks of things that will happen, and of the unease that has settled over the palace, all because of what they had done—

And Erwin decides that he will relay to the emperor of what has happened—he has said it calmly, never once looking at his wife as they walk side by side.

She observes him—the way his eyebrows are drawn tight together, his jaw tense, his lips set into a thin line—

“You are still hiding something from me, Erwin. That picture of a dagger you showed me, there is more to it, I know. You know the meaning of the words behind it. ‘I am from Tiger land’? Surely, you know whom we are supposed to be targeting. There are a million of people here gathered from former Tiger land alone, the biggest number being in what was once Stallion land. Besides, you haven’t told me if you had fun with the little guy and his tiger. I’ve been asking you nonstop about it but you just can’t open up, can you.”

“There is nothing more to it but a fleeting fancy, that I assure you,” he counters thoughtfully, and thinks about telling her what he knows, but snaps his mouth shut. And he knows she senses it—the urgency to bury something as quickly as possible, and she decides not to press the matter further. With a huff, she crosses her arms.

“I see there are spies in our country now. That man you killed earlier is proof enough,” she comments nonchalantly, and Erwin hums, appreciative of the change of topic.

“Schwert is a country near Tiger land, correct?” He gives her a sidelong glance, and their eyes meet. “Do you think, perhaps…?”

And Hange’s answer is a clear and resounding _no_.

“He is too sweet, Erwin. Surely, you cannot possible be thinking of accusing him of such a thing—!”

“Haha! Armin, that surely is a great way to get a lot of fabrics, but really? Why?”

The couple stops dead in their tracks, and from the end of the hallway, they see Eren, Armin, and a female servant walking in laughter. Erwin tenses as Hange runs and goes off to greet the younger three with her usual cheer.

The courtesan and the servants return the exchange with bows and smiles of their own. Eren gives the general a coy smile, while Armin gives him a shy glance. The female servant, however, bows and offers a fleeting bat of lashes as a greeting.

“—and then I will be the godmother of the future rulers of this land and this will be the first time I will be addressed as ‘Mama’—”

At this, Erwin chuckles, both at his wife’s enthusiasm, and at Eren’s awkwardness. “Surely you realize they cannot have children of their own, right, Hange?” She hears this, and it dampens her eagerness for only a second—

“But surely they can have a surrogate, right? I can volunteer if they want.” She sharply turns to a fearful-looking Eren with a feral grin, and she inches closer to his face, holding his hands as she does so, “Hey, Eren. Do you want a boy? Or a girl? Or how about both? Surely we can meet halfway about the birth arrangements—”

Erwin sighs, and Hange guffaws at Eren’s incomprehensible babble. Armin tries to diffuse his charge’s growing discomfort, but to no avail.

“Ah, Miss Hange—your hands—”

Hange blinks, and looks at Eren’s hands that are slowly turning purple from her hold. She lets go of them quickly, apologizing just as much, and she holds his wrists against hers instead.

“Eren, surely you will become our royal empress, right? _Right?_ ”

Flustered, the courtesan mutely lets out a mouthed yes, and Hange hugs him tightly.

“Please do it for our Levi.”

She breaks the tight embrace, and she smiles at him and the servants.

They part ways with a bow and a slew of smiles.

“What was that for?” Erwin asks with a hidden grin as soon as he sees the courtesan and the servants far from earshot. He eyes his wife with a playful smirk, and she returns it all the same with a huff and a cross of her arms.

“Nothing. There is nothing more to it but a fleeting fancy, that I assure you.”

The blond smiles, “That it is.”

* * *

Two, veiled women decked in black cloaks are trying to enter the House of Tiger in the dead of the night, and a wide-eyed Jean stops them from going inside.

“Why, this is for a man’s paradise, my ladies. Do you have the proper warrant that you are wanted in this establishment?” The women look and nod at each other, and two pairs of hands palm him up, feeling him through his armor and—

“Whoa, slow down, ladies—I didn’t ask for—”

A rough cough from behind him startles Jean away from the women. They stop, one woman’s teeth nearing Jean’s jaw, and the other woman’s hands curling into a claw on his back.

“Soldier Jean, I think the emperor hired you here to protect the Tigress’s abode, not to desecrate it with your trivial whims.”

“Ah! O-old man! It is not what you think—! These women are trying to—”

“We are here to seek the audience of the Tigress, if we could,” says the woman in a raspy voice, trying to bite Jean’s jaw as he pushes away. And the other woman meekly nods in agreement—

The old man nods, shrugs, and beckons them in. “The Tigress rarely leaves the palace nowadays, and this house has become more of a brothel from the palace’s courtesans more so than his alone, but I can send a messenger to deliver him a message, if you so wish.”

The women detach themselves from the soldier, and Jean makes a protest to the old man. “But you are just a regular patron here, you might be troubled by such a thing. _I_ will send a messenger to the Tigress. You stay in there and drink like you always have.” The old man shrugs and waves him off.

“Fine then. I will see these ladies to the back while you gather your wits, and we will wait for him to arrive.”

A flustered Jean does just as that, mumbling to himself about temptresses as he sends a messenger to the palace while the old man leads the women to the back, so they will not see any of the courtesans gathered inside the house.

“He will meet us here when he arrives,” he says to them as he lets them sit on plush cushions. He slides the doors close and regards them with a smile. “A lovely night, tonight, right, my lady? Or should I say, my future empress?”

One of the women chuckles, and she removes her cloak and veil, revealing a grinning Eren. The other woman does the same, and a beet-faced Armin gulps and quivers as he buries his face in his hands, mumbling something about shame.

“Shall the meeting begin, I wonder?” idly comments the old man, and he strokes his mustache as he grins at Eren’s becoming attire. “I am sure that the men from outside will flock to see you dressed like that once more.”

Eren, dressed in a black, thin cloak that exposes his shoulder blades, merely shrugs and waves his hand, “And have my finally-bearing fruits thrown to waste? No can do. I did this to meet up with you.”

The old man nods, looking very much pleased, and he points to Eren’s right sleeve. “It is still there, yes?”

Eren smiles, and shows him what he is asking for. He fumbles with his right sleeve, and out pops the dagger into his palm, “It is still here, Your Majesty. Now—about the plan to recapture our land…”

“Ah, so eager to take back what is rightfully his. I like that about you,” the man comments with a laugh, and Eren merely nods with a smile. “You have everyone in the palm of your hand, Courtesan Eren. The courtesans, the soldiers, the residents of the palace, the _emperor_ —” He sees Eren chuckle, and the old man sips wine from a discarded flask on the floor. “—even me.”

Teal eyes dart to the man before him, and Eren fights back a grin, “Why, Your Majesty, do you suspect I would plan to instigate a rebellion? Remember, our kingdom is swallowed by that bird of a ruler.”

“And that bird of the ruler you so speak of with spite is the one you will be marrying in a month, yes?”

Eren does not speak, and he looks away with a grunt. The old man guffaws. “Now is not the time to let your emotions wallow you into a tipping scale. Our freedom is at stake.”

He reaches out to Eren’s hand, and curls his fingers into a loose fist over the golden sheath.

“Your freedom or your love—which one weighs the most?”

* * *

“A resident from this kingdom? Why, why have I only heard of this now?” Emperor Levi glares at his general, his fingers idly tapping away on the wooden armrest of his lofty throne. Erwin has told the ruler of the recent events that has taken place while he was busy with conquering a little land from the north.

“We have taken up measure while you were away, Your Highness. We have disposed some of the would-be assassins sent to annihilate you—”

“And these people are…?”

“People from the former colony of Schwert. A land that was quite fond with the treasures of Tiger land.”

The emperor raises his brow, and purses his lips as he drawls, “How many have you killed while I was away?”

“A total of 16, Your Highness,” Erwin hears the emperor grit his teeth, and the general lets out a slow sigh. “Plus, I have discovered something that might… pique your interest. It is about our little spy.”

* * *

Hange tilts a scroll this way and that, mumbling something to herself every now and then. A man by the name of Moblit—her right-hand man—appears by her side, observing her with mild curiosity. And he asks her, “Major, are you feeling fine?”

He answers him with a nod, her eyes still trained on the scroll as she leans back on her seat with a groan, “Of course I am. It’s just, something about this picture rings wrong to me. I don’t know what. I know I’ve seen it before, but where…?”

* * *

Sitting under the shade of a persimmon tree, Eren, with his red hands riddled with wooden shavings, presents a wooden carving of a Tiger to a surprised female servant. She takes it with a muttered word of thanks, and guiltily looks at his hands. “Don’t mention it,” he says in return, clapping away the dust gathered in his fingers. All the while, he keeps the dagger close to his person at all times, and she fights back a smile.

“Do you feel burdened with the weight upon your shoulders?”

Eren looks up at the female servant, confused. Still, he answers, “Yes, I am. But—I am happy, I suppose.”

“Why?”

“Because I have found what I have lost. It is a different kind of freedom, shall I say. Besides, you remind me of someone I know too well. Please stay by my side.”

And they talk of things like this under the shade of the persimmon tree, and Armin listens on with a small smile as he keeps watch over them.

Watching from behind a pillar, a pair of blue eyes oversees the three, and he glances a second too long on something that lies shining in its golden glory in the hand of the laughing courtesan—

“A dagger, huh.”

* * *

A robe-clad and barefooted emperor Levi walks down the halls one day, the sleeves falling from his shoulders as usual, and he sees someone, a familiar face with a name that he cannot place. He observes her from afar, watching her tend to the fishes in the pond outside of Eren’s room. A small woman, she is, one that would surely pass his tastes in his harem. It has been too long since he has had his taste of men and women over his body, he admits to himself, but then he denies himself of such luxury, for he is now of Eren’s. That one night of pleasure with him and Eren and Erwin is only a bite of the maddening needs that are driving him to insanity—he denies himself, again and again.

But even so, he is naught but a man driven as a slave to his own desires—

—and so he calls her over to him. She looks at him, and she follows.

“What is your name?” he asks her. She is meek, he perceives, and he takes her silence as a moment of laughter. “Never mind,” he waves dismissively, “come with me.”

She looks back, to where Eren’s room lies, to where, surely her charge is taking a rest in the bath with Armin to assist him—

“Fear not, I will not harm you.”

She looks at him, finally, and glares at the proffered hand, and she reluctantly grabs it—

—she is led to a room filled with silence, and he speaks to her once more. “What is your name?” he asks, eyeing her from the corner of his eye, and she does not speak for a while. When he does turn around, however, she opens her mouth, and a whisper slips past her lips.

“My name is not of importance, Your Highness. I am humbled by your presence—”

He chuckles, and he tuts at her.

“Ah, but at this moment, I am not the emperor you speak of. I am merely a man dressed in a too thin and too large robe with not even the thinnest footwear to shield me from the coldness of the floor. Sad, is it not? I have all these riches in the palm of my hand, yet I choose to dress this way. Too laidback and relaxed—like a once fearful predator turned into a helpless prey.”

He grins at her, all wide and toothy, and she holds her guard, legs ready to flee at any moment—

—a flash of silver flashes through her eyes—

—and a cold whisper breathes through her ears, its voice too faint to hear.

* * *

“Where is she? It’s been a week. Is she sick?” Eren asks Armin for the umpteenth time. The courtesan is in a flurry of agitation, too restless to think of anything, and Armin realizes in their early days together that Eren is a person known to grow easily attached to the people he’s constantly around with—and his female servant is no exception.

“Eren, calm down. You’ll ruin your dress,” the blond reasons with a smile too forced, but Eren will have none of it as he sharply turns to him.

“I can’t calm down knowing my servant is missing. Armin, what if she has gotten ill and I have no knowledge of it? That makes me a bad person, does it not?”

“Eren, that doesn’t make you a bad person,” Armin sighs out, feeling his stomach flip in the oddest of ways. Trying to get reason through his charge’s mind surely is a daunting task at times, but then again, it is a part of his job—

—a scream rips through the walls.

The courtesan and the servant rush out of the room to inspect what has happened. They run towards the hunched people gathering just near the water wells, and they see, there on the ground, surrounded by guards and servants, is a heap of lifeless flesh decked in white robes—

“We thought we smelt something terrible coming from the well—”

“We thought it was rotten meat and—”

“—we dragged it out of the water and—”

“—a person—”

Eren hears no more, and he pushes the onlookers out of the way, and he crouches over to the body and turns it over—

—he gasps, and sees it is his missing servant.

Eyes wide with disbelief, he feels his blood run cold at her white attire splattered with black.

On the corpse’s robe is a note, written in fresh ink.

“‘ _N_ _ega Tiger land eseoib—ijjima_ _._ ’”

* * *

_She took hold of the courtesan that began to feel_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story will end in three chapters, yay~! Also, this is a gift to myself because I finally finished the college of hell.


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

_The tragic pair had built upon their back, a lustful life_

* * *

Short was his time of mourning. Three days have passed since Eren’s servant’s death, and the courtesan had been endlessly trying to find out who her killer was, swearing to annihilate those who have murdered her.

With the little wooden tiger he had made for her clutched in his hand, Eren seeks to have a word with his future husband. Armin, who constantly trails behind him, makes sure to keep his charge calm at all costs.

“Why would anyone do such a thing? She is harmless to all of us—a slave, she is!” Eren cries out to the emperor lounging in the throne room, and the latter, who looks at him calmly, silently lets out a breath as he speaks.

“Yes, Eren, I know. I don’t even have the slightest idea as to who might want to do this to her. I—I initially picked her for you because she is from your—my—land, and so I thought she might help you reminisce the past of your country.” The emperor stops speaking, and looks away, eyes flitting to one side as he takes steady huffs of breath. The courtesan bites his lip and clenches his fists as he tries not to say anything that may warrant the pale man’s anger.

“You really have no clue? Anything at all?” He inquires once more, and again, the emperor shakes his head, his fingers trailing over the shell of his ear, his gaze still averted from the tanned young man. Eren gauges the expression on the ruler’s face. Tense. Tight-lipped. Unwavering. And Eren does not know why, but something is there, on the way the man’s eyes quiver, almost, like a tale that is waiting to be unraveled, and Eren squashes an ugly thought forming in his head. It couldn’t be, his mind says, it can never be.

Those shaking, silver orbs slide to him once more, and a firm resolve slips past the emperor’s lips—a promise of bringing the perpetrator to death.

And with that, Eren leaves with naught but a nod and a forced smile from the reassurance he has just heard. Once out of earshot, however, he leans to his servant’s ear—a hushed whisper:

“ _Tonight._ ”

Armin nods, and Eren leads the way.

* * *

“She was too young to be killed,” says Eren to his patron, the man with the mustache. It is one of those nights where the courtesan slips away into the night to escape his duties from the palace. Sitting on the floor, he pours the man a cup of wine, to which the latter muttered his thanks.

“Ah, yes. She was too young. And to think that she is killed because someone thought of her as a spy—”

Eren sharply turns to him, accusation glowing in his eyes, and the man grunts as he spews forth truths from his drunken lips.

“In truth, she was one—she was my spy, my assassin, the one I ordered to slip into the palace to keep an eye on you—”

Eren scoffs, eyes trained on the man widening by the second. His mouth gapes, and closes shut, and tries to point a crooked finger at the composed face, and Eren gulps. His anger slowly bubbling, indignantly, he raises his voice at the older man, and intends to keep what little of his cool is left. “Why have you not said anything to me? I should have known—!”

“There was no way you should have known. You would have blown away all our chances to take a strike back at the enemy,” calmly says the man, and he closes his waning eyes, and Eren, still too caught up in the moment of swallowing the truth, chokes back a sob—

“What was her name,” the courtesan mutters inaudibly as he looks away, his teeth clenching as he speaks. “I have never even once asked her name. She was too quiet, not interested in voicing out her opinions, it seemed, but I never forced her to. I was content to having her by my side.” He falls into silence, his fists forming tight knuckles upon his lap, willing away the unknown guilt building in his throat, and he tries not to shed a tear—again—as the man whispers more to the cup of wine than to the young man.

“Rico. Her name is Rico. Born into a family of knife-makers, she mastered the ways of killing at the age of twelve, and she became my hired assassin at age of 15. Sad, is it not? To have her life taken away by a miserable—”

And Eren cuts him off and reasons once more, guilt eating him away of what he should have done, and the man reassures him, many times than he could count—

“What has happened can never be undone, my child. We shouldn’t be blind to those who killed our kin. We all know whose blood we seek, whose actions should be silenced because we are naught but expendables in their hands. But remember this, as you will one day shoulder the heavy burden—of the death of our people—”

Eren’s shoulders are grabbed tightly by shaking hands, and golden, waning eyes stare right at the courtesan’s beryl ones—

“A predator should never fall in love with his prey.”

A quiet whisper, a lament that echoes in the stillness of the room reaches the man’s ears, and Armin closes his eyes and tries to will away what the courtesan has muttered, a tearful jeremiad, a hapless consent, spoken in between trembling lips as a tear falls from a turquoise eye:

“Yes, Your Majesty…”

And in that moment, the servant has finally realized—he will never be the same.

* * *

“Gold is such a becoming color on you, Empress.”

“Your eyes are truly beautiful.”

“Empress, you look absolutely stunning.”

“Empress, the emperor will fall head over heels for you all over again.”

The endless slew of words said with adoration reaches Eren’s ears, and for the umpteenth time, he smiles away their compliments laden with falsities. “I thank you all the same,” he says time and again, and he observes them at the corner of his eye, frowning as he sees the way they stare at him when they think he is not looking.

A sly eye here, a slithering whispered word there, from both the men and the women of Emperor Levi’s horde—

Ah, the courtesans of the country all want his head on a silver platter.

Nevertheless, he shrugs them off, and focuses himself on the lavish clothing Armin has coerced him to wear.

“Armin, does it really have to be this long—”

“Of course,” the blond cuts him off, stitching another hem of the dress made of silk and gold. “And don’t mind those gossipmongers, Eren. They only add fuel to your fire. That is a pun, you see, that is why I created this with the theme of red and gold.”

The courtesan merely smiles and hums, and takes another peek at what used to be the emperor’s horde. He drowns down their voices, and frowns upon being called “The Emperor’s Temptress” behind his back.

Three more weeks until he will be declared the Empress of Eagle land, and then—

“The Emperor is coming—!”

A call from a servant from the outside makes the courtesans in Eren’s room scamper away outside and into the corners, bowing their heads as a gaudily-clad Emperor Levi walks down the hall, and seeing no one but the courtesan in front of him.

“Ah, Eren. Good to see you today,” he greets, and the brunet returns the greeting with a smile and a bow, advertently showing off his shoulders as per usual.

“Your Highness,” he speaks with a lilting tone and a small laugh as he shies behind his sleeve, “I’m afraid you have caught me in the middle of a fitting for the dress—”

The emperor laughs, and idly looks at his courtesans bowing behind him, “So I noticed. You are lovely in that.”

And Eren falters, a smile on his lips and a bashful comment stuck in his throat as he looks into the eyes of the Eagle emperor.

“I,” he gulps and blinks, suddenly wary of his words, “I thank you, Your Highness.”

The emperor nods, and a ghost of a smile passes his lips a second too soon; Eren prints away the memory in his head as he idly talks with the pale emperor for an hour, and he silently wonders as the man leaves with the same hidden smile—

“ _Will you still love me once you know who I really am?_ ”

* * *

It is nightfall in the land of Eagle. Behind the former farms of Tiger land lies a house big enough for five people, and behind that house lies a vast, barren land.

Two hundred thousand men stand before a fearless Eren, all of them looking straight at the robe-clad courtesan with sheer determination. Behind him stands Armin, the mustached old man, and a brown-haired, brown-eyed, stoic woman, who has yet to show the slightest bit of emotion.

The courtesan has announced to his army—almost all of them honed by Erwin’s training, and most of them hailed from the land of Tiger and Schild—an uprising, against those who have tried to trample on the former Tiger people’s name. He gives them a resounding motivational talk, a cry to those pushed to injustice and those who have been slayed and burned to death by the Eagle’s greedy claws. Eren yells out to the army, now slowly being filled with a burning rage, a question that rings loud into the dark skies of Eagle land. “Who is the one responsible for our misery?”

The army shouts, “ _Emperor Levi!_ ”

“Who is the one who have stolen our families, our dreams, our future?”

“Emperor Levi!”

“And who will be there to take it back, reclaim what is rightfully ours?”

“ _Emperor Pixis!_ ”

Eren looks at his army, his lips drawn in a wide smirk, feeling uplifted from the cheers of his men, he fails to feel a tap on his shoulder. And when he does, he cranes his neck, and steps away from the small podium as the old man steps in, bringing their attention with a voice booming in their ears.

He claims of renewed peace and of new beginnings once he will be crowned emperor once more, and, through Eren, who will be the empress of the land—

“That dream will be achieved in due time. Bow down to the true ruler of this country!” Pixis declares, and the army bows to Eren—

“A thousand-year reign to the Tiger Empress!”

* * *

All is well for the night. No suspicions from the palace soldiers. No shifting eyes to their direction. No nothing. All is as clear as the night sky as Eren and Armin walk back to the quarters. “A fair visit to my house,” the courtesan had said to one soldier greeting and asking him on his recent whereabouts, for the emperor had looked for him earlier.

“I am in my moment of mourning over the servant I have lost. She is not so easily replaced, as others have told me. I needed some time away from the palace because of it,” Eren says, and all is clear for the soldier, and he lets them pass by with a nod. Good. They don’t know anything. They don’t know that his army has appointed him as the leader of the uprising, the one who will start a new beginning. Ironic, it is, that those soldiers were honed to perfection, all by the right-hand man of the emperor he has sworn to destroy.

On their way back, Eren recalls a short conversation he had with Pixis, a story of how the late assassin came to have been so stoic in the matters of life.

A bright child, she was, she used not to be a recluse in her actions, but rather the opposite. Then came a young man and had stolen her heart away. Initially, she thought she had found the one she would be spending her life with, but then she was wrong, very wrong, for the man, who was strong-willed in the heat of the battle, always became weak-willed in the matters of emotions, and she was confused of it all. Unable to express them well, the young man had slowly receded from her, keeping at a distance of meeting her from afar, and she, who once longed for love, was trampled by his evasiveness, and she stored her heart away, vowing to herself never to fall in love and show emotion for the rest of her life. The young man already had her in his hands, you see—she would have given him her life should only he had confessed—and he had let her slip from his grasp because of his lack of courage. A fool, the old man had lamented with a sigh. She was never the same again. And the man, to this day, is lost—both physically and mentally—to the people he had once served in the army.

The courtesan recalls the former ruler’s words, his story, and one thought stands out the most as he gazes up to the waning moon—

“‘Such a terrible thing these feelings are’, he said. Don’t you agree, Armin?”

* * *

It is two weeks before the wedding that rumors in the palace start to fire anew—that a person decked in a black robe slaughtered the servant who had belonged to the future empress, or so says the guards in charge of keeping watch that fateful night.

Eren then makes his way to find such a person capable of committing such a crime, pulling strings from his army here and there to find the culprit, but to no avail.

A smiling General Erwin, at one point, even offered his assistance to help, only to be calmly refused by an equally smiling Eren. “I wish not to burden you further, General,” the courtesan had said, and now—

“Bring me the guard who has started this rumor,” Eren has ordered, and the palace then sets its eyes on the future empress. “This will be the day I will set my sights on the spies who have sought to destroy us all.” And the palace keeps watching the courtesan’s every move—

From a distance, General Erwin observes the robe-clad Eren, his sky-blue eyes lurking at him from the shadows.

* * *

“It is only a matter of time before he uncovers the truth,” Erwin calmly speaks to a glaring emperor Levi. “You should have told me you were going to dispose of her so you wouldn’t have to be so guilty about it n—” 

“Erwin, stop the lecture for a moment.” The shorter man sighs and rubs his temples, his jaw tensing at the mere mention of the disaster he had caused. “I was in a fit of rage, all right? I thought she was the one trying to shove hogwash in Eren’s mind to kill me—”

“Not her.”

“Eh?”

Erwin shakes his head solemnly, and regards the emperor with a brief look of pity, “It wasn’t her. Yes, she was from the same country as him, but the one who wanted you dead on the spot was not her.” 

“Then who is?”

* * *

It is the dead of the night.

Pixis gathers a small group of men in his house, and silently declares a sign for the uprising. With the declaration from the former emperor that the future empress will be the one to handle the military affairs, one could only wonder what it is to become of their country. Once all is said and done, and when the former emperor has left, the army, who has by then heard of the meeting, is then filled with dread. Divided by the countries of which they were born in, most of the soldiers who were from Tiger land side with the future empress, and those who were from distant lands side to who-knows-who.

The soldiers are in disarray, some, who were from Tiger land, say that the emperor does not know a thing, that the ruler is causing the people nothing but pain. “Or maybe he does know he is causing his people pain,” says another one, “and he is taking delight of it all.”

Murmurs start about, some siding with the empress, and some siding with the emperor of Eagle land. “He may be cruel, but he has provided us lands to live in,” says another one. “A mind filled with naught but greed is what he is,” says another, and dissonance slowly peeks into the shadows of their minds, all of them not knowing who is foe from friend. A division from Eren’s ranks soon happens, but they have yet to call on bloodshed—only a tense silence fills the air whenever talks of the uprising is held, and soon, a question arises from them all:

Who will win this cruel game of tug-of-land?

* * *

“The owner of this dagger you speak of—do I know who it is?”

The general states nothing, merely hums as he averts his gaze from the emperor. “Think what you will, but I am sure that who know who it is that we seek.”

“We can never be sure it is him,” the ruler says, vehemently denying the accusation being spat at his face. “He knows nothing of this—”

“Does he, now?” the blond inquires. “And here we were, the two of us who have appointed him as a leader of a whole army. And who is to say that he knows nothing of this uprising we speak of?” The emperor falls silent, gritting his teeth at the uttered words, and blond continues, “She and I will keep a close eye on him—as we have always done—and now that the one by his side is gone, thanks to you, we are now having a freer control of the situation—”

“Have we?” the pale man retorts with a scowl. “Because it appears I have only worsened it—”

“Just as how you have always done, Your Highness,” the blond quips with a little lopsided smile, one that never fails to crawl and itch his skin. “The dagger in question is with the owner—of course. And its purpose? That I have yet to know. But I know one thing is for sure—the thing you have written on the servant is not false, but at the same time, it is not what it is. You have written those words on her with a purpose—to rile up its owner, and you have, but not in the way you wanted it to turn out to be, is it?”

“Why didn’t you just get it when he wasn’t looking? Because it would be suspicious, is that it? Is that the reason why you did what you did? Is that why you persistently goaded me? To make yourself sure that he is not what I see him as?” The emperor hisses, purposefully avoiding the topic entirely. He wants answers to his questions, not more questions to his questions—

Blue eyes flutter close, and he refuses to answer. Only the faintest trace of a smile serves as the emperor’s growing ire, and he will have none of it—

The General of the Armies rises from the floor, looking quite smug, as is the norm, and he lets out a snide snort to the seething ruler, glancing at him with a mocking eye and a toothy grin.

“This marriage you will enter with him, will it be the start of the rise of the empire? Or its fall in entirety?”

* * *

The courtesan sits atop of his bed, mulling over something as he is hidden behind a canopy of gossamer. In his hand is the wooden tiger he had carved for Rico, and in the other, the golden dagger that had created it. From the other side stands a silent and somber Armin, ever watchful of the currently despairing brunet.

“Shall I bring you another cup of warm tea?” the servant inquires, only to be met by a weak shake of the courtesan’s head through the silhouette.

“I am fine, Armin,” he whispers too faintly for the blond to hear. “Moreover, did you hear the guard who was on duty that night? He consistently said the same thing—”

“—that he saw ‘a small man decked in a black robe, carrying a large, white sack, and dumped it in the well and left it there’, is it. And to me, he seems to be telling the whole truth.”

The servant hears the courtesan scoff, and he sees his silhouette tilt back, the brunet laughs, a mocking one, and the blond doesn’t know why.

“But isn’t it strange, Armin, that the man would just run off and disappear into the night with not even a trace? The guard had chased him, yes, and he told us something that doesn’t ring quite well with me—”

“‘The man vanished into the main hall where the emperor resides’, isn’t it? I thought it was strange as well, seeing as the guards there have eyes like hawks, not to mention, the General is within the perimeter of his quarters.”

“He could have very well missed the incident entirely, true, but I interrogated the guards on duty in the main hall that night, and they said they saw no one fitting of the description of the culprit.”

Armin hums and taps his temple, thinking of the situations that could have happened, and then—

The courtesan emerges from the canopy of gossamer with a wide grin, looking at his servant with a dangerous glint set in his beryl eyes.

“Armin, set up a meeting with me and the other courtesans.”

Blue eyes blink, and Armin cocks his head, “Care to tell me why? You have never been entirely fond of them. Why bring this up now?”

The answer he receives is nothing short of a chortle, and the courtesan lets out—

“I will give him a heading worthy of the empress of this land.”

* * *

The room of the emperor swims in liquid passion.

The horde of men and women from the courtesan hall showers affection to the heaving ruler of Eagle land, and Eren is behind of it all.

“Ah, Your Highness. It’s been a while since you have summoned us to your quarters,” says one scantily dressed woman draped on his thigh. “Imagine our surprise when the empress told us we could touch you again.”

“You are jealous, are you not?” inquires the emperor with a lilt in his baritone, sloshing away the amber contents of his drink, gazing at the liquid with mild interest. “But you had your fun on the outside, haven’t you. Dancing the night away with a yearning for other’s touch.”

“But it is not the emperor,” mumbles one man hugging the pale man’s leg, “and it is different.”

Eren, who has heard of it all, simply drapes his body over the emperor’s barely clad back, and splays his tanned hands on the firmness of his chiseled torso. “I agree on what they say, Your Highness,” quips the brunet with a lazy smile, “it is different if it is not the emperor.” A tanned cheek meets a pale one, rubbing affectionately with a deep rumble of a sigh from the ruler, “The emperor is kind, and has been getting more and more generous to the people lately. Families can now sleep in peace knowing they have food for the following day.” Eren nips his ear, tugging on it playfully, sucking on it, making sure to elicit sounds that would make the people in the room grow hot. He licks the inside of his ear, whispering loud enough for some of the courtesans to hear, “Crimes are going at a steady, sluggish waver because of the laws you implemented lately. The slaves are working their earnest not to bring you anger.”

Eren chuckles, and presses his mouth next to the emperor’s damp ear. The courtesan moans deeply—

“ _They are singing praises to you, my emperor._ ”

The other courtesans agree, and they smile and lavish the royal pair with a slew of heated touches, with Eren finally agreeing to be touched and to participate in an orgy worthy of the emperor’s meticulous tastes—

From the outside, a flushed Armin stands beside an equally flushed guard, and tries to drown out the breathy voices emanating from the open room. At one point, a high-pitched squeal pierces the air, followed by a grunt and a laugh from both Eren and the emperor. Then silence. And Armin breathes a sigh of relief, only to be replaced by a choked gulp when the telltale sound of skin slapping against skin snaps wildly, echoing throughout the halls. Whoops and cries from the courtesans scream out, all of them wanting _more_. The blond feels something warm trickle down his chin, and realizes he has been biting his lip for quite some time, enough for it to draw blood. Patting the blood and silently cursing himself for allowing himself to get carried away, he shyly looks around, and notes that none of the guards are within earshot, and for a good reason, he supposes.

Slow and agonizing is the time taken to have everyone in the room intoxicated with liquor and the smell of sex, and when all is said and done, the sounds of heated lust stop, and Armin, for a second, breathes out and bites the insides of his cheek. Eren voices out a thought, one that is demanding attention from the room in the form of a lilting laugh and a whisper, and Armin barely hears it.

And the emperor huffs at something that the courtesan has said.

“What nonsense are you saying, Eren?” the emperor chuckles with the sound of him drinking his precious wine. And Armin dares to peek at the scene behind the open doors.

The blond blushes at the display, and shies away from the sight of the lust-laden bodies draped over the barely-clad emperor.

“A black iris happened to slip into your gardens a few days ago, Your Highness. It had caused the death of a flower in your own palace, did you not know?” The voice of the brunet rings a tad louder than earlier, and some of the other courtesans look at him with mild interest.

How the conversation has taken a turn almost surprises Armin. Trust his charge to be bold and outspoken about his goals.

It is at this moment that Armin decides to slip away from the turning point of the conversation. Eren knows how to deal with things like this. Right now, there are people who need to know that the story has begun to unfold.

* * *

The sound of metal boots crunching the gravel on the ground echoes in the dead of the night—the beginning of the warning that is slowly to come. With spears in their hands, and swords in their scabbards, anger roars in the soldiers’ hardened eyes and tensed jaws as they set their sights on the vast palace of Eagle country.

Torches are lit and glowed high up amongst the marching soldiers, and among those raised high—are flags dyed in yellow, bearing an emblem of the once familiar symbol.

A roaring tiger, with the fiercest, greenest eyes.

And in the middle of it all, sitting atop of one of the horses, is a figure the people have thought gone and long dead—

—the emperor of Tiger, decked in the finest of gold with an armor to go with it.

Emperor Pixis raises his hand, and the army surrounding him slowly halts to a stop.

A soldier from the front kneels, and raises a bow with fire-tipped arrows.

He fires, and it shoots straight to one of the flags bearing the Eagle country’s seal.

The green flag with the set of overlying black and white wings slowly sings a harrowing cry—its silk steadily burning away, and its remains being carried off with the cold wind.

A nearby soldier on duty sees the burning flag, and he screams—

—the shouts of the long abused soldiers, along with the people oppressed and turned into slaves of Eagle, sends out a roaring cry.

* * *

Eren paces his room, his thoughts a jumbled mess as he tears at his hair. Paying no notice to his disheveled state of almost undress, he clutches at his slipping robes, his nails dragging over the skin of his arms, wincing at the pain he caused himself.

How could he. How _could_ he.

There is a presence behind his chamber’s doors, and with no hesitation, Eren lets the person enter.

In comes Armin, bearing the grimmest of faces, one that Eren is not used on seeing on the blonde’s usual meek and cheer.

“Armin,” the courtesan grits his teeth, and lunges at him with a sob, and his words become muffled in the sleeves of the servant. “He killed her—h-he _killed_ her…!”

Armin tries to soothe his distressed charge, rocking him back and forth as he keeps his slipping composure. “Eren, he kills people every time he takes over a new country—”

“He _killed_ my servant—the one _he_ chose for me…! He killed her because—” Eren wheezes and Armin pats his back as the courtesan struggles for his words, “—because he thought she was trying to kill him!”

At this, Armin lets out a breath he has been withholding for a while, and with his nose buried in Eren’s disheveled hair, he hugs him tight and whispers.

“I have told you before, Eren—”

The doors to the courtesan’s room bangs to its hinges as it slides—

From the outside, the screams of people echo throughout the palace, and the courtesan and servant look at each other and wonder why.

—the guards that are usually standing by Eren’s room barge into the room and pushes Armin down with their spears locking the servant’s neck with the blades. Eren, who had slid onto the floor with a thud, witnesses it all, and looks at his guards with wide eyes. Panic-stricken, he tries to stand up and retaliate—

“What are you doing to him…!”

“Eren! Run!”

—only to see blood splatter on his face.

Eren feels his heart stop at the sight, and his body ceases its movements as Armin’s right arm hangs limply—

—and Eren feels his blood run cold.

In a fit of flurry, a quiet anger takes over him, washes over him with a roaring cry. He takes out his dagger and plunges it straight to one of the men’s throats. The face of Armin's open-mouthed horror briefly fills Eren’s vision as he moves and shoves the corpse out of his way, hearing it thud behind him, and the courtesan loses it as he tugs his dagger out of the gaping flesh.

The other guard makes a stance, readying his spear—“Don’t move!”

But Eren lunges forward and steals the spear from the guard’s hands, shoving the blade straight to the armor—and Eren relishes the blood splattering on the man’s chest, red as blooming as his bubbling loathing for the injustice of it all.

Right before the guard’s life ends, a pant and a wheeze slip from his bloodstained lips.

“ _Long live Eagle land…!_ ”

The guard’s head bobs to the broken door, blood pooling at his mouth as life leaves him.

Seconds tick by, and Eren blocks away everything, hearing nothing but the blood pumping in his ears and the wracking shiver running down his numb arms and the sweat trickling down his back. He is knocked back to reality the moment feels warmth on his feet—and the scent of carnage suddenly, finally, fills his nostrils, and he fights back a sob as he turns and rushes over to Armin with a cry—now unmoving in his arms.

Eren chews on his lip, burying his face on his servant’s chest, a muffled slew of screams tearing at his heart as he claws Armin’s body to his own, desperate to keep him warm and moving and _alive­_ as he rocks him back and forth—

A quiet thud falls from Eren’s hand, but it is paid unnoticed as Eren mourns for his friend.

Nothing makes sense. None of what just happened makes any sense. What did Armin do? Why kill his servant? Why did his trusted guards act so violently towards them? Why did—

—and he could feel the sound of his own heart pumping in his ears, the adrenaline still running in his system, waiting for a moment to attack on anything that may hurt him—

From a distance, Eren hears the yells of the people outside growing louder.

He looks at nothing but red on his clothes, muttering that things are going to be all right for him and Armin. Teal eyes blink back more tears, and he repositions his servant in his arms.

He nudges something with his hip as he moves, and Eren turns, and struggles to see the thing lying near Armin’s body with tear-stained eyes. The courtesan picks it up, and he bawls.

The golden dagger shimmers with ribbons of red in Eren’s trembling hand.

He kisses Armin’s forehead and struggles to stand up, and he carries him slowly and lays the blond on his bed, shifting the matted blond strands sticking to his servant’s brow, Eren leans down and moves his lips to Armin’s ear.

“I’ll always remember your words, Armin…”

Eren tucks his dagger inside his robes and straightens up, wiping away the blood on his face with his hands. He can still feel the pounding in his ears, and he wills away the feeling of his knees buckling as he turns around and sees what he has done to two people.

Eren calmly walks away from the bloodshed he has caused, his feet leaving behind a trail of splattered crimson on the floor.

He follows Armin’s last words.

The courtesan runs and sees lights burning bright in the night sky, their yellowed flashes falling onto roofs and spreading fire upon the palace.

He gasps for breath as he sprints down the halls—ignoring the yells of the soldiers he passes by, some of them inquiring the state of Eren’s ghastly attire. One of them in particular, blocks the courtesan, the soldier’s face showing confusion.

“Empress, what happened? Who did—”

The soldier falls to the floor with one strike from Eren’s blade.

Another soldier sees what the tanned man has done, and just like the fallen man, the soldier expresses concern. “Empress, what did they do—urk!”

Teal eyes dart madly left and right, his hearing now heightened as the furious pattering of metal boots meet his ear. He clenches his teeth as soldiers with their raised spears run towards Eren’s direction.

Eren yells.

War has begun.

* * *

_That soon fell to pieces when they held out their knives_

* * *

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An emperor. A merchant turned slave. An empire that hoards all that it sees. All is entwined into a tale of love and betrayal, knowing no bounds, even in the clutches of death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The long and winding months that I have written this fic is slowly arriving at a harrowing end.

* * *

_Words uttered in doom, begin to slowly bloom_

* * *

 

He doesn’t know it.

He doesn’t have to know.

He will bring it with him to the grave.

Everything will go well, as he had planned in his head.

It had been a great plan—the telling, the needed sacrifice and spilt blood, the naïvety of one man, along with the people surrounding him, the ones he considers the source of his loathing.

It had all been a great plan—bringing in a revolution and a new leader and a new future filled with freedom—real freedom, where there will be no slavery from the young to the old.

It had all been a great plan—

—until he had heard the heart-wrenching wail from a certain person’s lips, his voice a sound filled with agony, a sound that he doesn’t want to hear ever again for the rest of his dying days.

And it is painful, killing him from the inside out, and the thought of what the courtesan might think of him after this war is over seems enough reason for him to stab himself to death.

Ah, but he had been stabbed, had he not.

It had been all part of the plan, after all.

Blue eyes open wide with tears and blood mixed together. A wheeze is ripped from his throat, his lungs rising and falling beneath his ribcage once more, his heart finally beating to its normal state after being stunned into death-sleep for what seemed like eternity.

Armin sees the ceiling, all white and clean in contrast to his bloody state, and he sobs, muttering a slew of words indecipherable to his ears—a wrecked apology, to whom, Armin does not know anymore.

But a name, a sound—so ragged and breathless and burning and painful—leaves his lips as he turns to his left and forces himself to sit up on his weak knees, wincing at the pain the spear has done to his right arm. He looks at the stained bed sheets dyed with red.

“Eren...”

His face scrunches, and with quivering hands, he fumbles on the insides of his robes, searching for something as he mouthed words that don’t reach his ears—

And he swallows his spit and feels his mouth go dry. No matter how many times he swallows his saliva, he feels not even a hint of dampness inside his mouth. Heaving and panting, he takes out a canteen. His fingers shake uncontrollably as he hurriedly uncaps the container. He wipes the sweat from his brow and gulps down its contents, feeling some of the liquid slip to his chin.

His face twists and tears slip from his eyes from the burn of the liquid. He does not stop until he empties all of it, and finally gasps for breath as he clutches onto his throat.

He eyes the bloody remains of the guards that have gave them their all up to the very end—all for Eren’s sake.

Armin swallows thickly as he staggers to stand up, and his knees buckle beside the fallen guard. Grunting, he reaches out his hand to one of the dead men, and he gropes around the guard’s armor, searching for something—and when he does, Armin’s lips tug a little bit with a small whimper, the closest he can get to crying all over again.

Armin pulls out a small paper dabbed with blood from the soldier, and he struggles to read through his currently blurred vision.

In a breathless voice, he reads out, “‘A thousand-year reign… to the Empress of Tiger land—’” Armin pants out his tears, looking at anywhere and anything and not to the open-eyed corpses lying in front of him. The two soldiers were from Eren’s army, sworn to protect everything that involved Tiger land, even at the cost of their own lives.

They have not disappointed Armin, who had been the one to give them the idea of a false death for the servant in the form of a fair lady’s berry being swallowed.

It was all for the plan to retake the stolen lands. Have the Empress be thrown into the anger worthy of his title as the Tigress. Have him, in his blind fury drowned in betrayal and false alliances, take over the land and reclaim what he had lost.

In the end, it had cost them their lives—

Armin tastes the last remains of the vinegar on his lips.

“You… done… well,” the blond breathes out, struggling with his words as he pats the dead soldier’s head with a sad smile. He turns to the other dead soldier, and Armin nods as he gives them his thanks.

The burn slowly dissipates from his throat, though a hint of dryness is still present whenever he gulps.

He bites his lips and fear engulfs his body upon hearing the screams of the people outside. Everything feels cold as he shakes his head furiously, his hands now balling into fists on the bloody floor.

He tries to scream.

And nothing comes out.

It had all been part of the plan after all.

* * *

Erwin looks at the ceiling of the room he shares with his wife as he mulls over the events leading to the royal wedding at hand. A few days from now, there will be an empress crowned for the first time in the land of Eagle, and the General makes sure everything will go smoothly and according to plan.

Although—

“Erwin, why the furrowing of your brows, again?” quips Hange, who lays beside him drowsily. It had been a tough day for them both, having to suppress the curbing needs of the people by giving them barley and enough drink to last the drought. More wells are being made throughout the land, and resources are steadily dwindling, if not for the emperor’s attempts in taking over another land for the future.

“Do you know who is the real spy in our country?” he suddenly asks as he turns to her, his expression grim as he watches his wife tilt her head.

“I do not understand. I thought you already had her killed? Well, Levi did, from what you told me.”

Erwin hums and nods to himself, biting his inner lip as he sighs and sits up. “Levi thought it was her. Well, she was, but she wasn’t the one with the intent to kill.”

A sharp jolt from beside him does not startle him the slightest, and Hange peers at him, shaking her head.

“If it wasn’t her, then who is? I could interrogate soldiers right now if you want to. Make them spill the beans—”

Erwin laughs rather emptily, and he looks at her with a little sneer and an odd twitch in his face. “Would you do it, I wonder...?”

A loud banging on their door makes Hange yelp, and she instantly reaches out to one of her knives hidden inside of her pillow—

Erwin sees it, and he looks at the dagger in his wife’s hands.

He lets out a droll laugh, one that shows his teeth in a cross between a growl and a suppressed cry, and he shakes his head lamentably.

“A dagger, huh...”

Hange glances at him, confused. And she tries to ask him about what he just said when she involuntarily squeals once more.

The doors slam to the walls, and in comes two soldiers looking worse for wear, with bloodstains on their armors and on their spears.

“General. Major. Our borders have been breached by rebels!”

And just like that Hange drills the soldiers as she springs into action, donning on her armor and sword. “From where? How many soldiers?”

“We can’t be sure, Major. They are all over the pla—urk!”

Erwin calmly unsheathes his sword just as another garbled scream pierces out.

The other soldier dies by an arrow to the skull.

“Erwin! What’s happening?” asks Hange, as she steps out and looks at the burning sky.

Erwin ties his robe and glances at the bloody corpses. His jaw tenses, and he closes his eyes in deep thought.

“War is happening, Hange.”

“And the enemy? Who is the enemy?”

Fury paints her face, and Erwin does not speak, fearing the consequences of the name about to leave his lips.

From the fiery sky, an arrow pierces to a roof behind Hange, spreading the beginnings of a raging fire.

Blue eyes open, and he utters a whisper, a lone word, one that cuts through Hange’s sanity.

“Empress.”

* * *

“The enemy is upon us! Strengthen yourselves, men!”

The clash of sword against sword and the squelch of blade against flesh screams in the canopy of the rising flames as enemy and ally alike fall by the sword and spear and arrow.

Emperor Pixis slices through a tall and gangly soldier, hears a choked gasp against his ear, and feels the ripple of blood trickling to his hand. He hears a cry, a name unfamiliar to him—

“Bertolt!”

—and the emperor whips around—

The brute of a blond screams—“For the glory of Eagle land!”

—and thrusts the sword into the attacking soldier’s stomach.

Bertolt heaves as he helplessly watches his friend die in front of his eyes. “Rei... ner...!”

The soldier falls to the ground in a heap, and Emperor Pixis leaves the heaving and mourning soldier to his slow demise.

War goes on, and from the far edge of a burning tree is a person crouching in a calm sense of panic, blue eyes darting about as he holds a silver dagger close to his chest.

A soldier creeps behind Armin, a spear at the ready—and the blond turns around and shoves the dagger to the spearman’s chin.

Armin runs and almost trips on a burning wood. Wincing at the singe on his heels, he hops over a dent on the wooden ground and sees another soldier, one who serves for Emperor Levi.

The blond swerves into action, unminding of his name being uttered as he plunges the blade into the soldier’s throat.

Armin does not look back as he hears the screams—

Blood starts to pool at his feet, but he pays it no heed as a soundless yell tears at his throat once he attacks another confused soldier.

“Armin, what are you doing—!” is the last thing the blond hears before he kills him.

He swallows the bile slowly rising as another soldier approaches from the nearby corner, the face unrecognizable and nameless as the spearman charges—

—and the bloody dagger flies from his stained hands just as the lance nears to his face—

Armin accepts his death. Imminent. Brutal. Filled with pain.

He closes his eyes as he waits for the finishing blow—

And the spearman falls to the ground with red spilling from his gurgling mouth.

Armin flinches, peers through sweaty lashes and does not hold back a soundless gasp.

The spearman lies dead at his bruised and injured feet.

He gulps and looks around in a dazed stupor with blank, blue eyes, and sees an all-too-familiar face standing at the end of the once vast hallway with a bow and arrow ready to strike the kill.

Armin tries to call out to the familiar face, to scream his name and run to him and seek refuge—but no.

“Armin.”

The servant freezes at the sound of his name. It sounds unfamiliar to his ears. Distant. Cold—

—vengeful.

The imposing figure lowers his bow and arrow, piercing blue eyes very much unlike the hue of the usual summer sky he had grown to love.

The servant gulps and slowly shakes his head, his whole frame still stuck in place—

The General of the Armies takes a step forward, and Armin runs away in a soundless scream with tears streaming down his face.

It was the first and last time that the servant heard his name uttered by his beloved General.

The sound of footsteps are heard, hurriedly accompanying the steps that are fading away—

“Erwin! The soldiers from Vallum are attacking from the south. We cannot—Erwin...?”

The general doesn’t answer and merely looks ahead, his eyebrows drawn tight together as a tense jaw paints his face.

Hange taps him on the shoulder, and Erwin jolts.

“...It is nothing,” he says finally as he stares at the fires blanketing the once beautiful palace, eyes silently trailing on what’s left behind.

“Everything will fall into place once this is all over.”

* * *

One by one, soldiers die by the poisoned blade in Eren’s hands, some have begged for mercy, screaming to be forgiven for something that they have no power of—but the courtesan hears none.

Tears and blood stream on his face, and the fires around him grow stronger as he shoves a dying spearman towards the embers.

Eren wipes them off his eyes, his hands too numb and trembling to feel his flesh that had been close to getting scorched.

He turns away from the fires, and sets his eyes onto the next building, one that is yet to be burned by the fire arrows, and he slowly walks towards it, noting the complete lack of presence in the once familiar hallways of the courtesan hall.

He hears the soft pattering of his bloodied feet on the wooden floor, leaving faint, red stains on the canvas, and Eren staggers in his steps, bile long sticking to his throat with each swallow.

He sees two, large doors splattered with blood at the end of the hallway—his own doing—and begins to hum a familiar tune, his voice hoarse and eerie, as he slides open the wooden surface.

In the canopy of darkness, there he sees a single thing inside the vast room, hanging all in its lonesome and ethereal glory.

Armin’s handiwork has never been touched Eren in its completion.

Eren holds his breath and blinks back his tears as he strides over to the silken creation.

With hands stained and matted with blood, he ghosts his quivering fingertips over the fabric, and his mouth parts as he thumbs over the veil spun in the sheerest of golden threads.

A drop of red smears onto the thin cloth, and Eren jolts his hand back, fearing of damaging it further.

From the outside, the distant sound of battle cries are heard, and the soft crackle of fire against wood creeps slowly to his ears, and Eren gazes at his wedding dress—

—he strips off his clothes, and dons the silken garments weaved in red and gold and gossamer.

Eren sighs and cringes as the fabric caresses and sticks to his blood-matted skin. He briefly tugs it, careful not to rip it, and ties the sash around his waist.

He hums and looks down on his dress, sees the intricate embellishments sewn in red and gold fabric—zardosi, Eren mutters to himself with a sad smile. He twirls, feeling the little blisters on his bare feet, and the lehenga flows and follows his movements, creating a small whirlpool of claret and flaxen around his legs. And he glances at the Chantilly patterns that graze his skin, and smiles through tired and watery eyes—

He stops twirling, his arms outstretched and paused midair, and he glances at the maroon and gold bangles lying in the middle of a sheer, saffron-hued sari arranged in a loose bun. He walks over to it and wears the ornaments on his wrists, testing the weight against his weary bones, and smiles, seeing the colors complement his bronzed skin.

He places and pins the sari on his head and on the front of his waist, and completes the wedding garments with a ruby and gold-encrusted circlet.

Eren pirouettes once more, a strangely satisfied smile painted on his faintly, blood-matted visage.

The fires outside the palace crackle, and a cry from a flying eagle shrieks overhead.

* * *

The bellowing of thunder roars from a distance, its voice ripping through the warring people in Eagle land.

An all-too-familiar voice cries out, and Emperor Pixis raises his sword.

* * *

Eren calmly walks through the rain-stained hallways leading to the emperor’s quarters, his visage as haunting as is beautiful. From a short distance behind him, a trail of soldiers lies dead in his wake.

He sees the familiar doors shut, and he slowly slides them open.

The inside of the room is dark, and very, very warm—just like the day he first entered it.

A shiver runs through his spine as a gust of rainy wind blows on his dampened skin.

Standing in front of the mattress, with his back facing him, is a pale and small but intimidating man decked in a pale blue robe.

He is looking at a crisp and regal pale yellow sherwani sewn in the most intricate of golden brocade on the hems, its collar standing upright––one that matches with Eren’s wedding garments.

He takes a step inside, and he sees the emperor move a bit—

“Eren.”

The courtesan does not say anything, and takes another step.

Emperor Levi slowly turns around, and Eren sees a certain curtain of blankness in those steely eyes, further deepened by the downturn curve of his lips.

A trick of the light of the night, it seems, a mere flash passes by his teal eyes, and nothing more.

Eren feels calmness envelop him, and he fully steps inside the room, closing the doors behind him without looking away.

Silence hangs over their heads, strong and thick and heavy—it is unlike them, Eren muses with a quirk of his lips, and he breaks the ice.

“Why.” It is the first word that comes out of him, a lone word that has been nagging at him since he had learned of the truth; and he sees Levi’s throat bob, his jaw tensing.

They haven’t talked since then, and the lack of words between them gnaws their very existence—

“I thought she was plotting you to kill me.”

“And you believed it? Who was it that planted this thought in your head?”

“He did.”

“Who is this ‘he’?” Eren asks, his body now closer to the emperor, searching for a semblance of a clue on his passive face. “It’s General Erwin, isn’t it?”

Levi does not speak, and looks away, and Eren scoffs, nodding to himself in bitter realization as he steps back. “It is him, isn’t it.”

“Eren, this isn’t—”

“This isn’t what? It’s not what it looked like? You got carried away? You did not search for the facts? Is that it? Levi, you killed my servant. One of my own people. My _kin_. She isn’t someone you can replace so easily!”

“Is that really what she was to you?”

“What?”

“Is that all she was to you? A servant? Only that and nothing more?”

“What are you talking about?”

Levi takes in a deep breath and glances at his wedding garments, and his face scrunches. “I saw something on my way here, you see. Something that stirred inside me. I was,” he heaves a breath tad too long, shakes his head dismissively, and flips off his hand, “I was about to get you and leave the palace with the ministers and me—and then plot against the tribes who dared to defy me once we are out, but on my way to your chambers, I saw a soldier bearing a seal etched on his headband, a seal I thought I would never see again.”

“And? What is this seal?”

“It is the seal of your country, the land of Tiger.”

Eren’s brow rises, and he sneers, “Don’t kid with me. That soldier bears nothing of the sort—”

“The seal of tiger with green eyes—”

“He yelled, ‘Long live Eagle land!’”

“What?”

“Don’t feign this any longer! Everything points at you—my servant’s death, the writing on her person, the ambush of these soldiers from all over!” Eren wails, his expression pained as he tries his best to hold back his tears.

“...You wore your wedding dress,” is all Levi simply says, finally taking note of the courtesan’s disheveled appearance—the blood matted on Eren’s hair and saree, the fresh scars on his face—

—the hidden blade in his red-stained hands.

Eren’s face falls at the sudden change of topic, and he twirls and laughs and beams, an odd and eerie sight to behold—

“Do you like it? I should have worn this three days from now,” the brunet sings out, “but...”

“We can never marry, can we.”

Eren stops in his pirouette, the smile frozen on his face as he turns to Levi—

“No. No, we cannot anymore.”

A flash of gray. The sound of metal hitting the plush blankets—

Eren straddles and pins Levi to the mattress, and the younger male shrieks as he removes the dagger from the bed and aims it to Levi’s throat, only for the emperor to stop it with his longsword.

“I wanted to kill you from the very beginning, did you not know? I wanted to, so, _so_ much that it pains me every time I see you in your harlot-house of a room!” Tears spring forth from his eyes as he glares at Levi’s gnashing teeth. He heaves. “But you know what? I never wanted to do the deed of me killing you—I never have. You know why?”

The courtesan’s breath wracks against his lungs, shoulders shaking as he struggles with Levi’s sword. Levi does not speak, merely huffs away the brute strength trying to overpower him—

“Because I have fallen for you, even if I have been betrayed by you over and over again.”

Levi’s hold on his sword slackens, and Eren takes it as a chance to push his dagger close to the bobbing throat, only for Levi to jerk and retaliate—

—accidentally slicing Eren’s right cheek in the process.

Time seems to stop, and wavering teal meets hardened gray.

A dry laugh seeps and bubbles from his throat, and Eren glances at the stunning, wedding garments, a small simper making its way to his face.

“So—this is how everything—how we will end...?” is all Eren croaks out, his teeth baring in between quivering lips, ignoring the split skin damp with the slow beginnings of his tears.

Levi’s throat bobs, and then—

“We were not supposed to end, Eren.”

Eren stills and looks back to Levi, the struggle ceasing for the longest of moments, and he sees the agony written all over those silver pools hardened by time.

“I’m supposed to loathe you for burning my family to death and for turning me into one of your harlots.”

“We could run away from all of this and start all over.”

“I’m supposed to despise your despicable deeds and methods to take over new lands and destroying lives of countless people.”

“We could live in a quaint, little home. Free from all the judging eyes.”

“I’m supposed to feel nothing but anger for your killing of my servants.”

“We could own pets. Animals are nice.”

“I’m supposed to hold back emotions for your utter apathy about it all.”

“Or we could build a small kiosk for fabrics. I know you have a great eye for high-quality fabrics.”

“I’m supposed to hate you for lying to my face.”

“And then you would weave them into lovely garments. I would be there to admire them all.”

“I’m supposed to kill you.”

“I would be the happiest man in the world.”

“Levi. Stop it.”

“Why?”

Eren chokes back a sob, and for a moment, the dagger moves, staggers, an inch closer to the emperor’s throat.

The courtesan does not answer, and merely grits and hisses through clenched teeth. Levi tries to fend off the nearing blade.

“Why are you still trying to kill me, Eren? Even after all that I have said?”

“Because,” Eren heaves, “I have never been your loyal subject. You are not the emperor that I serve. You never have.”

From the outside, indecipherable hollering from soldiers litters their pounding ears, but both men are too pent up to listen to everything—

“Do you serve him? Him that is bringing ruin to my land?”

“From whose land ruined who?”

“That is quite a good retort.”

“You taught me to be even more sharp-tongued—unknowingly, that is.”

Levi laughs, a lopsided smile adorning his face, and Eren’s stance almost wavers—

—almost.

“I am the biggest fool of all—for falling for a man that can never be completely mine.”

“Fools, we are, Eren. We could have everything—”

“But we have nothing now.”

“I still have it. We still have it. And I will take it to the grave.”

“Not if I fulfill my duty and revenge first.”

With a fearless shudder and a pained cry, he thrusts the dagger on Levi’s neck—

—Levi’s eyes bulge as he chokes—

Shouts from the outside grow louder and louder, accompanied by the sound of heavy and hurried footsteps—

The sound of blade piercing flesh and bone—

—“ _Find the emperor and the empress!_ ”—

Eren’s body freezes as the dagger falls from his bloody hand, and tears fall as he chokes and looks at Levi’s red-stained neck and hand—

Color blooms from between their bodies joined by the cold blade piercing their spines—Levi’s blue robe dyeing a deep scarlet, and Eren’s yellow wedding garments seeping a lively shade of carmine.

Eren’s lips curl into a pained sneer despite it all.

“You bastard…”

Levi opens his mouth and gags on air, mouthing barely audible words—

“My… kingdom—is you—…ren.”

Eren falls on top of Levi, cold and quivering hands touching an equally cold and quivering one, and breathy pants slip from his steadily numbing lips—

The beating of the emperor’s heart faintly thumps in Eren’s ears as moments pass steadily, the silence growing stronger around them.

“You will take me with you, right…?”

Levi takes a shallow gasp of air, his body wracking as he mouths more words too soft for Eren to hear.

Eren weakly turns his head, smiling softly still, heavily dimming eyes forcing them open towards the closed doors—

—“ _Find the killer!_ ”—

Levi’s body faintly jostles, and Eren’s thumb soothes over Levi’s cooling palm, lightly toying with the warm blood.

“…Country—…ies with its ruler…”

“…we are truly the world’s biggest fools, Levi…” The soft smile slowly fades from Eren’s reddened lips—“Ar…min. I—”

“ _Where are they!_ ”

“ _Search every room!_ ”

Eren kisses a bloody fingertip, and hearing slowly fades from his senses, whispering words that are faint to the noisy air.

“—never should have fallen in love…”

Levi’s hand falls from his blade, faint gray eyes growing heavy as he looks at the closed doors.

“…—happiest man… in the world…”

The doors rattle and shake, the shouts now roaring from the other side of the room.

The wooden frames crack and fall on the damp floors—

“Levi! Where is Er—” Erwin cries out and falls silent, wide, blue eyes falling on the lone bed—

—and on the two, bloodstained figures lying still on it.

Erwin’s jaw tenses, and he inches closer to the sword-stuck emperor and courtesan.

His blue gaze trails over their peacefully blood-splattered faces, the smiles small and faint—

—and Erwin swallows a lump in his throat, blinking as he tries his best to steady his shallow breathing.

“Levi.”

He looks at the longsword puncturing the men’s backs.

Erwin’s shoulders stiffen.

He kneels and kowtows to the unmoving bodies.

“‘You must slaughter the very heart you have for him’, I told you before, have I not…?”

The few soldiers who have seen the corpses on the bed from the outside bellow and bawl, all of them letting go of their weapons and falling to their knees as they wail out their laments for their ruler—“Your Highness! Empress!”

Erwin’s voice cracks as he pounds his fist on the floorboards, his forehead hitting the wood as he yells out his grievance.

“You chose to let your country burn to ashes just for the sake of one man?”

The soldiers sob and bow and bawl out their woeful words as Erwin wracks out sobbed words—

“If only…”

Erwin’s head snaps up, and openly sheds a tear at the sight of Levi’s faintly smiling face—

“ _If only you have not laid eyes on the young man that had enchanted your whole being…!_ ”

* * *

_In a lamentable array of color_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be the first completed multichapter fic that I have. I feel accomplished for once in my fangirl life. D:
> 
> There will be an epilogue for this, fear not.


	13. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thirty-three years have passed after the war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The long and winding months that I have written this fic has now finally arrived to a poignant ending.

* * *

Wide are the blue skies covering the heavens under a country ruled under peace, the insignias on flags bearing a seal of a tiger with green eyes printed upon a silver backcloth fly high on the posts scattered throughout the land. Loud and happy are its people scouring the streets, trying to get by with their daily lives. The air is filled with laughs and lively music, and a long gone but familiar song shrills in the air, the words being sung by children.

“ _Far away and long ago, an emperor reigned supreme. A fearsome, little tyrant, he ruled at just 16._ ”

And the boys, six of them, circle around little girls—also six in number—while holding hands, creating a big circle, with little girls holding hands in a smaller circle.

The boys stop circling the girls, and they start running around the busy streets—the boys now holding bigger sticks while donning blue robes, and the girls holding little sticks in their pudgy hands while donning yellow robes with red linen on their heads.

With joyous laughs, they scamper in between the busy throng of the people, high-pitched squeals accompanied by a shrill cry. The little boys raise the hand they use to hold the sticks, and they chase after the little girls. The adults let them be, shaking their heads with sorrowful smiles as the children sing of a tale that has long been passed down.

The boys run after the squealing girls as their makeshift toys touch the girls’ arms one by one.

“ _He governed over his country with an iron fist._ ”

The girls who have been tapped with the twigs are taken to a corner of a street where four boys stand with their hands joined in a circle facing outwards.

“ _For most of his reign, the people were powerless._ ”

Four girls are tired, but happy, with wide smiles on their faces as the boys’ joined hands are raised and the girls go inside the circle, trapping them there.

“ _He lived a life of luxury behind the palace walls, and had a faithful general who gave him his all._ ”

The sticks that the girls hold are taken away by the boys who have captured them, and the boys run away in a chant.

“ _He took over what was once Equine land, all then was soon owned by the tyrannical man._ ”

The boys then place the smaller sticks inside a wooden box, far from the makeshift cage that the four boys make. They hide it from prying eyes, from the remaining girls—a shrill chorus rings loud.

“ _Should it happen that his lands become barren, he’d take over states to make up his sovereign._ ”

The two girls left running around steer clear from one of the boys now guarding the box, their eyes now set on getting the little crate. One of the girls crouches behind a merchant walking by, her smile wide as she stealthily crawls up behind the boy guarding the box. Her hand reaches out—

—and she is patted on the arm with a stick by another boy.

“ _Those who would dare and try and take his influence, would all be simply put into their deaths._ ”

The little girl is taken to the ‘cage’ of boys, and her stick is taken away.

“ _Swords wrought with doom, with red they slowly bloom in a striking array of color._ ”

The boys then lift the red linen wrapped around the girls’ heads and tie each cloth around the sticks that they hold. They raise the sticks above the girls’ heads.

“ _People who would block his way for his happiness, will melt into a fiery paradise of wretchedness._ ”

The lone girl outside of the circle hides behind an earthenware, her eyes peeking around and seeing her peers caught inside the cage of boys. She tucks the linen around her head and hides her face. She holds on to the stick in her hand and searches for another place to hide. She sees one of the boys standing and looking around from afar, and she scurries away from the passersby.

Crouching low and hiding behind the legs of the people passing by, she hides behind a foundation of a nearby apothecary and giggles to herself as she observes the boy scratching his head, clearly trying to figure out where she is.

She conceals half of her face with only her eyes showing, and she creeps up to the unsuspecting boy—

—she happily takes away the stick from his hand, and he whips around.

The little boy smiles.

“ _At 27, he then loved a man of Tiger who had longed for another land._ ”

He then takes her by the hand and they walk back to where the other children are. A round of happy chorus and squeals and laughter echoes from their wide smiles.

“ _The little ruler then ripped his freedom and—_ ”

The little boy then gingerly lifts the veil of linen from her face and wraps it around their joined hands.

“ _—turned him into his very own courtesan._ ”

The red linens from the other girls are thrown over the smiling boy and girl’s heads, turning the fabrics into little scarlet ribbons.

From afar, a blond, middle-aged woman observes the children with a small smile. A passerby, a tangerine-haired woman in her late fifties, sees the laughing children, and idly comments to the other woman.

“Carefree really are the little ones, don’t you think? To sing the song of the forgotten without ever knowing its meaning.”

The middle-aged woman jolts, and sees the person standing next to her. She observes her attire, flowing and abundant and pleasing to the eye, and she smiles. “You are of the palace, yes?”

The woman glances at her, and her eyes smile at her, “Why, yes. Yes, I am.”

The blonde nods, and regards the children once more, “I have met someone like that once when I was a little girl. I—” Her train of thought pauses, and she giggles, as though recalling fond memory. “I thought he was a woman because of how he dressed.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, strange, isn’t it? The way he carried himself with grace and elegance. Um,” she fiddles with her hair, and she glances at a trinket around her wrist. “The nice young man gave me this as a present. It’s a jade bracelet. It had seen better days, I have to admit. The strings got loose when I turned seven, stitched them up a new one that night, loosened them up again when I turned 20. I have never once parted with it.” She pauses and covers her mouth as she looks at the woman with mild surprise, “I apologize. I seemed to have talked too much—”

“It is not a problem,” the orange-haired woman laughs. “Rambling is nice,” she peeks at her face, and slightly bows, “I am Petra. May I know your name?”

The blonde bows, shoulders shuffling as she does so. “Historia, I am. I am pleased to meet you.”

Petra beams, “Historia, I am quite happy that you haven’t parted with that little trinket.”

“It was the first piece of jewelry that I’ve ever had, so I kept it with me at all times.”

Petra hums and nods, and says nothing more as a little girl runs towards Historia with outstretched arms.

“Mistress! Look, look!”

Historia crouches and welcomes the little girl in her arms, “I see you had fun with your playmates, today, Frieda. What is it?”

“Today, I married him!”

Historia and Petra share a look, and they giggle as they went along with the little girl.

“How did you marry him?” asks Petra with a lilt in her voice.

“I got his sword! And he got my veil! And my veil was tied around our hands—one for him and one for me!”

Historia pats Frieda on the head, “I am sure you will be a beautiful bride someda—”

“Ah, hey! Get back here, you little runts! That was my bread!”

“The big, bad horse is here—”

“Run for your lives!”

“Hey—! Ow, my back...!”

“Jean...?”

The aforementioned Jean stops in his tracks in front of a blinking Petra, and he stammers a string of apologies—“They were trying to get my bread and they succeeded, Mistress! I am so sorry for—”

His words are cut off by a muffled chortle, and it catches Jean’s attention, and his stammers return tenfold—

“You’re babbling like a fish, Jean. That is unlike you,” Petra comments with a tut, and it snaps Jean back to reality.

“I apologize, Mistress. I was on my way to visit the House and check up on you and, uh...”

Just then, another figure walks by, the man’s breath wheezing with a cough as Jean notices him and pats his back.

“Minister, are you feeling ill again?” The minister coughs and beats his chest with his fist, and musters a smile to the worried Jean, and he shakes his head, to which Jean replies, “Oh, you just took in dust?” The minister nods, and Jean sighs in relief, “That’s good, then.” He then notices Historia staring between Jean and the minister, and Petra explains it for her.

“The Minister of Music lost his voice when he was young, but that didn’t stop him from creating music, you see.” She gestures to her ear, “His ears are very sharp despite having lost his voice, and his hands create the most wonderful pieces of our time.” She laughs, and says out in pride, “In fact, he gave another life to that song little Frieda sung with her friends earlier.”

The little girl’s eyes widen and her mouth gapes in wonder as she mutters a soft exclamation of awe, and looks at the smiling minister. She tugs on his sleeve, and he crouches to her level.

“Why can you not speak, Minister?”

The minister freezes at the question, his face pausing in mid-smile—

—and tears start to fall from his eyes.

The little girl cocks her head, her expression puzzled, “Minister? Why are you crying?”

The minister covers his mouth and tries to keep in his sobs, but fails as more tears slip past his eyes, and Jean pats the minister’s back and apologizes to the little girl, saying the minister has led a lonely life.

“But that doesn’t explain why he cannot speak,” reasons the child, and Historia chides Frieda, to which Petra only laughs out as a way to ease the tension.

“Little Frieda, do you know the story of the Eagle and the Tiger?”

Frieda turns around and smiles, happily bouncing on her feet as she squeals, “It’s the lovely story of an emperor and his empress and how they built a holy land!”

At this, Petra giggles and pats her head, and tells of a tale passed from generation to generation—about an eagle who had captured an injured tiger roaming around a forest filled with fire.

“This swift bird swoops in on an injured tiger one day, all battered as bruised was it, and the eagle sinks its claws into the striped feline, not giving it a chance of escape.” And Petra watches as she sees the eyes of the little girl grow wide, and she continues, “The brave eagle takes the tiger in his stride, and, one day, when the habitat of the eagles were being attacked, this fearless tiger suggests a strike. ‘I will provide you with intelligence,’ says the tiger, and gives it intelligence, he did. The tiger’s wisdom gave the eagle’s abode more food and resources, and in return, the eagle fell for the tiger’s charm, and the bird made the large cat its empress.”

“But they love each other, didn’t they? They had lots of children, didn’t they?”

Petra, unable to keep herself from choking back a muffled cry, bites her lip and shakes her head. “They couldn’t, little one. Because they became enemies before their love could fully blossom.”

The smile from the child falls, and she blinks, “Why did they become enemies if they love each other?”

“Circumstances.”

All eyes fall on the weary minister shaking his head, his cheeks still dampened with tears. And he begins to shake and clutch his arms, mumbling a lone and raspy word in between chapped lips. “ _Me_.”

And Jean looks at the minister; his jaw tenses, and says nothing.

He’d never say it to the world of the gravity Armin has been holding on for so long.

The minister rarely mutters a word due to the damaged vocal chords he had received from drinking the fair lady’s berry 33 years ago, crippling his ability to speak altogether save for a few choice words: ‘me’, ‘Eren’, and ‘I die’.

Jean has always known that Armin blames himself since the day that Eagle fell. The then 21-year-old servant miscalculated the actions of his dearest friend—and it had cost them precious lives.

Armin has, and will always be, blaming himself for Eren and Levi’s untimely deaths.

The blond heaves to the ground and openly cries, “ _Me… they died…_ ”

Petra rushes over to the jittery blond, and steadily pats his back, “Oh, Minister. You are still young to be worrying about such things. Forty-four years and yet—” Her words stop as she feels a hand on her shoulder—it is Jean’s, and he solemnly shakes his head.

“He will carry it with him to the grave, Mistress. Ar—Minister Armin will always be pondering about it, and he’ll never be in peace.”

* * *

 

The sound of flutes echo in the courtyard of the Tiger palace, and not from afar, little Frieda, who has by now become a student in one of the music classes, peeks through a little slip of the door, curiosity taking place as she sees the Minister of Music smiling and nodding along to the tunes of his students.

“What are you doing?”

The little girl jolts and bites back a squeak as she faces the looming man behind her—and her face turns to glee as she waves.

“Oh, it’s you.”

The man huffs and crosses his arms, “That’s Minister Jean to you, young lady. Now, why aren’t you in my class earlier? And why are you snooping around Minister Armin’s class? Thinking of trying to switch classes?”

“No,” she says, swaying one of her feet as she fiddles with her thumbs behind her back, “I was thinking of how the minister can teach when he cannot speak.”

Jean blinks, a soft ‘oh’ leaving his lips. He eyes the inquisitive child, and nods to himself as he sighs, “He can teach them with his actions, and his eyes say a lot. Besides, he can write out things if the students truly cannot understand.”

Frieda hums, and glances at the now closed door, “Why cannot the minister speak?”

Irritation starts to peek from Jean’s face, and he scratches his head as he exasperatedly explains, “Listen, kid. You have been asking me that since day one and I cannot possibly just—”

Frieda looks up at him with wide eyes and an even wider smile, and Jean feels his resolve crumble. He groans and slaps a palm to his face. Frieda giggles—she knows she has won.

“Follow me, kid.”

And she does as she was told.

She follows the minister to one of the vast halls in the palace, and she bows whenever she sees people who are dressed as ladies and men of the court. She and Jean pass by four guards before entering a large hallway, Frieda takes all of the details she sees—a large hall dyed in red, its surroundings kept warm by little lanterns held high that give off smells familiar to her nose.

Night jasmine, plumeria, and gardenia—those scents seem to fill this particular part of the palace, and she dares not to question why.

“We’re here, kid.”

Frieda tears her eyes away from one of the many lanterns carrying the familiar scents, and she sees two, looming, sliding doors too large for her small height. Jean slides them open, and her mouth slackens in awe.

Inside is a dimly lit room, its walls heavily adorned with lush curtains of maroon. Hanging on the walls are two inked portraits drawn on sepia-toned parchments—one of them being a smiling man garbed in flowing robes, his arms outstretched, dancing away in mid-twirl; and the other one, also a man, dressed in a robe, kneeling and facing left, as though he were paying reverence to the dancing man, beaded eyes looking at the elegance drawn on the left.

And in the middle of it all, is a large bed with a plush mattress and a plush duvet, all in white.

And there, sitting in front of the foot of the bed, are two trivets, both holding what seem to be weapons.

Frieda stares at the portraits as she curiously approaches the mysterious things, and she averts her eyes from the picture of the dancing man, and she then tries to touch the smaller of the two weapons, only for Jean to yell out.

“You are not to touch anything in this room.”

“Why not?” she turns and pouts, “I just want to see.”

“This room has a huge history, one that shouldn’t be defiled by any hands, especially one as young as you. Heaven forbid that you might be a sorrowful one once you touch anything in here.”

“And why is that, Minister?”

He raises an eyebrow, “And only now you’re calling me Minister.” She giggles, and he rolls his eyes. Approaching the little girl, he glances at the things in front of her, and he frowns. “You might become as sorrowful as them.”

Frieda looks at where he points, her eyes immediately drawn towards the dancing figure painted on the canvas.

“What is sorrow, Minister?” she turns to him, her eyes wide with curiosity.

Jean looks at her expectant and naïve face, and he opens his mouth, only to shut it once more behind a muttered curse. “It’s sadness. The kind that you can’t bear to feel.”

“Grief?”

“Yes, that’s it. Grief.”

“Why were they in grief?”

“Because they cannot be together in the end.”

“But the legends—”

“The legends were wrong, kid. That’s what happens when a story spreads. The rendition changes and changes until little to nothing is left from the truth anymore.”

Frieda casts her eyes away from Jean, slowly muttering the words said to her, chewing on its thought and memorizing it like a mantra. The minister lets out a sigh and looks at the ceiling and blinks the dampness from his eyes repeatedly.

“Kid, do you know the story of the song you really loved? The one where you sing as you play and run around with sticks and veils?”

“Of course,” she squeals, “it is my most favorite game forever!”

Jean’s lips quirk upwards into an insipid little grin, and he scratches his nose. “I—wrote that.”

And he hears a squeak of joy, sees her bouncing on the balls of her feet, and she clutches onto his sleeve. “Did you really? Did you really write the Evil Emperor?”

Jean forces a laugh and looks away, and glances at the dancing figure on the painting, and he gulps. “Well, no. Not really. More like, I have heard of it from someone I knew quite well. Look behind you.” She does as that, and he points at the painting on the left, “ _That_ was the person who wrote your favorite song—Empress Eren.” Frieda’s jaw slackens, and she inches closer to the canvas, her eyes revering the artwork. And Jean continues as he looks at her awestruck expression, “He wrote that song for the emperor.”

“For Emperor Pixis?”

“Oh, no, not for him. But for the one on the right. Emperor Levi.”

There is a pregnant silence, one that makes Jean’s skin itch. He knows how bright the child is, and how sharp her intuition could be. It wouldn’t take long for her to figure out—

“The empress was a man?”

—and there it is.

“Yes. Yes, he was.”

Now, there are a plethora of things Jean could say to make the child understand the wrongness of it all, of how the two rulers defied all that is traditional and the norm. He could say a list of all these things, even if it would take him all night to tell these to her. But when she turns around, his thoughts cease its words, and he bites his inner cheek as he sees her eyes water.

“Minister, could you teach me the whole song? I’d like to know their whole story.”

* * *

 

The emperor of Tiger land usually comes out from his room for a morning stroll before collecting his duties, and today is no exception. Trailing behind him is Armin, and behind him, Jean. The younger men have always been loyal to emperor Pixis since they have learned of Eren’s life, and what he had become.

“It is another great day today, no?” laughs the emperor, and Armin nods with a smile, and regards the older man with a distant look.

The man’s clothes are a far cry from what he used to wear during his times as a patron in the House of Tiger. Gone are the muted clothes to conceal his identity—his consumption of liqueur, however, remains a constant.

The emperor looks at the foundations of his palace with a solemn nod, his eyes squinting every now and then.

“Your Majesty, you really should be returning to your room. This heat will—”

“Oh, hush, Jean. This heat is nothing compared to the heat I put to my stomach everyday, haha!” And the emperor pats his belly, and for a moment, his fingers linger a second too long on the ever-present flask of liqueur inside one of his pockets.

From a distance, the emperor sees two familiar faces talking near the pavilion. A man and a woman decked in armor—and the emperor’s smile falters.

It has been too long since the end of Eagle’s reign, and two of its most loyal veterans of war have seen it all.

Erwin and Hange never once tried to stage a rebellion after the fall of their country, the two of them knowing very well that it would bring them nothing but more deaths.

The former General of the Armies of Eagle land had turned into the Minister of War of Tiger land, and Hange had turned from a mercenary into a medic in the battlefields.

The husband and wife, both who are now nearing their sixties, are currently looking at something on the pavilion square, and when the emperor looks at their source of attention, he sees an unfamiliar face, along with the lone sound of an erhu being played in the midst of the summer air.

The emperor catches sight of the one playing the instrument—there, sitting with her feet cross-legged near the pond in front of what once was a certain courtesan-turned-empress’ quarters, is a little girl not older than twelve years old. Her eyes are closed tightly shut, her brows furrowed in deep concentration as her fingers press and glide on the two strings, her other hand holding the bow as it meets the cords with elegance. From her lips are words barely heard, lyrics holding meaning to the tune being played, and a tear is shed, but she barely acknowledges it.

“A recognizable tune she is playing, isn’t it?” the emperor turns to Armin, who by now had tried and failed to conceal his tears from the older man. The emperor laughs and pats the Minister of Music on the back. A certain lilt and slope of the bow on the strings makes the emperor pause in his laughter, and his mouth parts and his eyes widen just a tad.

It is only now that he realizes what the girl is wearing—two robes, a white undergarment, and a fuchsia outer garment made of gossamer silk, both tucked firmly on her pale shoulders.

A winding cry from the erhu sings out—

—and Armin’s breath hitches and bows and excuses himself and away from the emperor, and Pixis lets it slide.

From a distance, Armin hears muttered words past the girl’s, Frieda’s, lips—silent words that his long-gone friend had once sung.

“ _Regretting and seeing that he made his own mistake,_

 _He begged for mercy and grabbed every chance he could take._ ”

* * *

 

He is aging, voiceless, downtrodden from smiling and teaching too much, and tired from inside out. His knees have been failing him recently, but he has made it here with a few puffs of breath from running.

He kneels on the floor and plants his palms there, bowing in front of two familiar paintings.

And he pours his heart out in rivulets and garbled wails and breathless gasps, feeling his lungs painfully take in thin air heavy with the heady scent of plumeria, night jasmine, and gardenia—smells that remind him of many years ago.

Forty-five years of bearing the pain all by himself, and Armin has yet to stop from crying every day in his moments of solitude.

It is long before he has stopped crying, and Armin wishes to cease his tears, but a glance too long at a painting that dances over him, and a fresh wave of agony engulfs him whole.

He has seen people grow old and die, seen children grow up and have children of their own, has seen people who mourn for all the deaths wars have caused—

—and it is of these things that remind him of Eren every day, of how, in his one wrong step, everything had been taken away from him.

Armin wonders, and will forever wonder, of how things might have changed if he hadn’t created the elaborate plan of sparking Eren’s anger into full-blown carnage of revenge.

It had been his plan, all his and no one else’s.

And it had caused him the greatest loss of his life.

Armin’s lips part, and he mutters breathy words with no meaning to anyone but him. At one point, he cracks a smile as a tear falls, and he whispers Eren’s name, mouthing the words, “Sorry, my friend”. And he buries his face in his hands as he catches the sight of Emperor Levi’s portrait. Armin has sworn to himself that he can never look at the fallen emperor ever again after what had happened.

He swallows his sobs and shakes his head fervently at something he has thought as he conceals his face in his palms, and he stills in his seat for a very long time.

The cries have long ceased, and his breathing hitches every now and then.

He clutches his hand on his chest, and feels a soft rustle there as he takes out a small, yet familiar object that he has been acquainted with for over the years—an object that he had once gotten from one of the most influential people of his time and today.

The glistening of something small pops from his sleeve to his hand, its weight as cold and heavy as his heart had become.

Armin smiles and recalls the memories—all the good and the bad—from the silver, little thing.

He closes his tired and reddened eyes.

A parchment falls from his sleeve, and with it, a muted thump.

* * *

 

It wouldn’t be for the next few hours that the people of the palace would realize something was amiss, a certain someone, was missing from the banquet of the Tiger ruler.

And with it, a note written with smudges of tears that have dripped along with the ink, its words heavy and silent with the acceptance of what had happened.

‘ _I should have died with you that day, so you would not have to be alone. You would need someone to help you dress you up for the emperor, and that has always been me._

 _Remember what I told you before, Eren?_ ’

A composed, yet agitated Jean reads the words over and over, and he glances at the softly smiling Armin.

‘“ _I’d give up everything to have you safe, even if it means killing my own safety for yours.”_ ’

Jean tenses, and clutches the note in his hand and shakes his head in disbelief and suppressed grief.

From Armin’s hand is something that shines silver, with rubies of liquid form—a dagger that closely resembles Eren’s golden one.

And Jean attempts to smile, only for it to turn out into a grimace, and he silently weeps as he says words that he had always heard from Eren whenever he had seen them passing by.

“Are you feeling well today, Armin?”

Jean hears no response from the person he had grown to love over the years as his friend, and his laughs bellow as he cries the cry of an insane man—

“ _Truly, one should never have fallen in love!_ ”

* * *

_The people now speak of the tragic two that became_

_The emperor and courtesan that died from love and fate_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all of the people that have read and followed this fic from beginning to the end, to my readers on FFN and here on Ao3, and to the people I have met in real life who have given me life-changing perspectives on how I should view the world, and have slowly and unknowingly contributed to the majority of this story—I thank you all from the bottom of my heart.
> 
> And because this fic is now officially finished, I shall now return to my other fic that I have somehow left to rot in my hard drive. It’s also a multichapter one, and also in the SnK fandom—“To You, From This World to the Next” will now resume its writing.
> 
> Thank you all so much!


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